'When Florence Murray married in 1902, her husband, a Colne valley wool manufacturer, was a widower with a young son ... who was looked after by an aged housekeeper ['an extra particular Baptist'] ... one wet afternoon Florence "took "David Copperfield" from the bookshelf and boldly began to read it aloud to her while she knitted. She disapproved of novels, but I represented it as Dickens' life ... the old lady was greatly interested and amused ..."'