Henne Roesel was not unknown to my mother.

She often came to the store, to beg, under pretence of borrowing, a little flour or sugar or a stick of cinnamon.

On the occasion of the betrothal she had arrived late, dressed in indescribable odds and ends, with an artificial red flower stuck into her frowzy wig.

She pushed and elbowed her way to the middle of the table, where the shadchan sat ready with paper and ink to take down the articles of the contract.

On every point she had some comment to make, till a dispute arose over a note which my grandfather offered as part of the dowry, the hossen's people insisting on cash.