The Dowry of Miss Lydia Clark
“He was relieved to see that the Worthy sisters weren’t in their usual spot in the sunlight—they didn’t spin on Sundays, he supposed. Had he seen them, he would have altered his route accordingly.
Behind a white picket fence sat the two-story Clark cottage, built of the same sandstone and slate as the Larkspur. A sixtyish woman answered the door, short and rounded, with gray hair and serene brown eyes.
“Mrs. Clark?”
“Yes,” she replied with a smile. “And who might you be, young man?”
... He swept the hat from his head. “Jacob Pitney, Mrs. Clark.”
“Ah…you’re one of those archeology men.” A contemplative frown furrowed her brow. “Am I saying that correctly?”
“Actually, it’s archeologist. But either title is fine with me.”
“Yes? Well, I do like people who are easy to please. What might we do for you, Mr.MoreLess
Behind a white picket fence sat the two-story Clark cottage, built of the same sandstone and slate as the Larkspur. A sixtyish woman answered the door, short and rounded, with gray hair and serene brown eyes.
“Mrs. Clark?”
“Yes,” she replied with a smile. “And who might you be, young man?”
... He swept the hat from his head. “Jacob Pitney, Mrs. Clark.”
“Ah…you’re one of those archeology men.” A contemplative frown furrowed her brow. “Am I saying that correctly?”
“Actually, it’s archeologist. But either title is fine with me.”
“Yes? Well, I do like people who are easy to please. What might we do for you, Mr.MoreLess
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