Mariella bit her lip, as much to affect the look of an unhappy widow sad with her grief as she did to keep herself from laughing. Her husband and his death were the furthest thing from her mind in most instances, and when she did think of him her only sadness was that she had once thought herself in love with him.
"Mariella Rumianova, my dear." She said, recovering from her fit of mirth. "And you are?"