It arises, I think, from an over developed sense of humour. Probably a sick man's whim. "At the Black Lion in our street," replied Jack, without hesitation. " "How do you spell the last name?" He spelt it. “You must not think of me as one. He was a small, dark, reserved man, with a large inflexiblelooking convex forehead, and his wife was very pink and high-spirited, with one of those chins that pass insensibly into a full, strong neck. Presently he began to weave a tale, sorry enough, with all the ancient claptraps and rusted platitudes. She did not try to approach him. Mother had met with him two years before to begin the process of finding a match. He was keen to get to work, but the inspiration would not come.
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