She took after her mother, so they said.  Nits will be lice. 

         She would be met, said the witnesses, ever so often, 
among the chickweed, secretly -- this little high-born, this 
little corn-cockle. 

         Her ready laugh, they averred, too ready: her brain 
a walnut: her lips too free.  Whereafter her hips soon 

         Her petticoats, they had noticed, were like clouds 
in the air: her broken legs, a disgrace. 

         After which, given sufficient time, as more than 
one had noticed, the soles of her feet were alone visible just 
before she disappeared down the drain.