To her dying day, for thirty-five years, she did not speak of him.
When she was twenty-three years old, she met, at a Christmas party, a young man from the Erewash Valley.

Morel was then twenty-seven years old.

He was well set-up, erect, and very smart.

He had wavy black hair that shone again, and a vigorous black beard that had never been shaved.
His cheeks were ruddy, and his red, moist mouth was noticeable because he laughed so often and so heartily.

He had that rare thing, a rich, ringing laugh.