I still have a cross stitch she made for me of a little fairy sitting on a daffodil. “Please don’t,” she said. ‘Jacques, do not die while I am gone. ’ ‘What name would you like, then?’ Her shadowed features turned in his direction. She was dressed in a tattered black stuff gown, discoloured by various stains, and intended, it would seem, from the remnants of rusty crape with which it was here and there tricked out, to represent the garb of widowhood, and held in her arms a sleeping infant, swathed in the folds of a linsey-woolsey shawl. Nothing else so quickly establishes the condition of comradeship as the sharing of a laughable incident. There was a man, a boy, and a woman.
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