harriet harris came from sturdy anglo-saxon stock. the first time doctor wilson saw her smile was when he told her she had a few weeks to live.
"thank you, doctor,"' she said. "this simplifies matters enormously." she got up and escorted him to the front door herself.
her maid, judith, whom she had been planning to replace, was lazy and incompetent. now harriet would not have to replace her - another burden lifted from her shoulders.
it was a beautiful early autumn day. a few leaves had fallen from the beech tree in the front yard and lay across the path to the street. doctor wilson kicked at them with his heavy black boots - which he had made special for him by a shoemaker in thomasville, two towns away. he smiled at the thought of never having to deal with harriet harris again, and made his way to his well-polished model a ford, which had been the only automobile in town until that damned fool benjamin jackson had purchased a new graham paige a week earlier - one he was sure to wreck any day now.
all these people lived in booneville. everything and everybody in booneville was connected, both to the other things and persons in booneville and to the things and persons beyond booneville.