A very extraordinary lady compleats this malicious group. She does not appear to have any Christian name, but by the gang is termed the Glove Woman, as she constantly wears cotton-mittens. Sir Archy dryly insinuates that she keeps her arms thus covered because she has got the itch. She is about 48 years of age, is above the middle height, and has a sharp face. On her chin and upper lip there is a considerable quantity of fine downy hair, and she is somewhat pockfretten. Always dressed in a common fawn-coloured Norwich gown, with a plain cream-coloured camblet shawl, and wears a chip hat covered with black silk. The glove woman is remarkable for her skill in managing the machine. She frequently goes abroad. The rest of the gang, but particularly Sir Archy, are constantly bantering and plucking at her, like a number of rooks at a strange jack-daw: she has never been known to speak.

Gloves

The death was a shock but not a surprise; and there had been time to assemble some narrative defence. There was little pain.

The newly-bereaved sat very still.

Those who had admired the deceased called by phone but were not invited. Those who visited were not admitted. A neighbour returned several ladders; and they leaned across the front doorway.

The cat was sulky.

Alone, at its insistent request, the bereaved sat beside remains and ruin, and stared without focus.

The deceased hadn't bothered putting its gloves on. Its new gloves. Gloves lying on a cold pillow.

The bereaved put on the gloves. They fitted loosely but could be pulled up every few minutes.

It shuffled to the wardrobe, removed an entire outfit of the deceased, and dressed. The result was preposterous, yet there was a similarity.

String pulled in the trousers at the waist and checked the billowy shirt. Rubber bands held the sleeves in rucks. It was little better; but the deceased had never cared about sartorial appearance.

Why should the survivor care?

It rang friends and announced itself as the deceased. We have died, it said. Come any time.

When they came, they asked, in their various ways, what was meant by these actions. The responses evaded the questions as the bereaved affected not to understand. I am fine, it said. It's just that, my partner being away, I need company. Then it began to cry, squealing softly.

A psychiatrist called; and, after some minutes alone with the survivor, declared it sane. The visitors stood in the cramped kitchen, making occasional; shallow remarks to each other; and to the person who was pretending to be another, now deceased, who was now saying odder things.

At last, the survivor leading, they entered the inner darkened room, each carrying a knife.

The leader seemed to hesitate, seemed, for some moments, to dream.

And then speech. I have changed my mind. We shall devour the entire corpse. No one leaves until we finish. Pull the clothes off the still one and start cutting. Save all the bones.