Inheritence Comments

I would not visit this dread place again, but duty drives the carriage in which I quake. Every jarring bend threatens to destroy the fragile calm I strive to portray to these grim, rebuking relatives who surround me; resenting my every breath.
I squirm in this padded discomfort, my clammy white gloves covering even paler skin.
Is it always this way with the passing of one's distant kin?
But I cannot think, the horses shoddy stride distracts me, pounding nails of sweat into my brow.
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