“You’d take the word of a madman?” he asked. “You’re not a madman.” “I was put into that asylum for a reason. I couldn’t convince the commission that I was sane.” She smiled. “One of my husband’s parishioners firmly believed she was Queen Victoria. She wore black bombazine and mourning brooches and talked constantly of her poor, deceased Albert. I can’t believe you are as eccentric as she.”
