Mitch smiled. All during the war, he'd thought of her walking the length of Main Street, ladylike, holding envelopes in her gloved hand. Wartime stockings well mended, coat and hat sensible, neat leather purse over her arm. She paid hospital and personal accounts herself between one and two in the afternoon. Mailing a bill four blocks was foolishness, stamps were money, people ought to speak as they take care of business, it's only civilized, and wouldn't everyone agree a Main Street where people exchange talk is one reason the war was fought, a small but human reason?

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