The Dancer (a true story)

Alone, she danced on the lawn by moonlight. The dew-wet grass was cool beneath her bare feet, and the slight breeze, welcome on such a hot summer night, caressed her bare arms, which still showed the marks of bruising.

But there would be no more bruises; no more beatings, no more fear. There would no repeats  of the shameful, humiliating nightly  assaults;  the whispered threats of what would happen if "their" little secret should ever be revealed.  For he was dead. Dead, dead, dead! Her heart sang with happiness as she twirled between the flower beds, drinking in the night-scent of roses and stocks. How she had longed for this moment; dreamed of dancing, unmolested, in the moonlit garden; of dancing to celebrate her freedom and happiness.

The neighbouring houses were shuttered and sleeping. Nobody would see her dancing, and if they did, they would never believe it was her.

For widows don't  dance, do they?