Everyone knew of the engagement, and approved of the same, although some hinted that Lucy Kendal would have been wiser to marry the soldier-baronet.

Amongst these was Widow Anne, who really was Mrs.
Bolton, the mother of Sidney, a dismal female invariably arrayed in rusty, stuffy, aggressive mourning, although her husband had been dead for over twenty years.

Because of this same mourning, and because she was always talking of the dead, she was called "Widow Anne," and looked on the appellation as a compliment to her fidelity.

At the present moment she stood at the gate of her tiny garden, mopping her red eyes with a dingy handkerchief.
"Ah, young love, young love, my lady," she groaned, when the couple passed, for she always gave Lucy a title as though she really and truly had become the wife of Sir Frank, "but who knows how long it may last ?" "As long as we do," retorted Lucy, annoyed by this prophetic speech.
Widow Anne groaned with relish.

"So me and Aaron, as is dead and gone, thought, my lady.