Mary Linton

Mary Linton is thirty-six years old, and has been a widow for two years now. She lives in Valentine, in a cramped house at the very edge of town, together with her elderly father. He firmly believes that his daughter ought to thank him for her corner and her bread. Her days are monotonous: morning service, the grocery store, the occasional letter to distant relatives. In the evenings Mary sits down at the piano, if her father doesn't have a headache. She keeps her household in strict order, and in public wears a calm, friendly smile whose price the neighbors don't even suspect.

Once she had a very different time in her life: youth, and a man she was drawn to with all her heart. Mary turned him down herself, making what seemed at the time a sensible choice. His yellowed letters still lie at the bottom of the dresser, hidden under stacks of clean linen. She never quite understood whether that parting was her greatest mistake. Local gossip frightens her more than poverty, for an honest name is the only thing she has left.

Mary is reserved, speaks politely and very cautiously. She won't tell you anything about herself right away: first she'll question her guest, steer the conversation toward the lingering autumn rain, and a quarter of an hour later casually return to the point. It's easy to discuss books or the habits of horses with her. It's harder to talk about her own soul. But show her some sensitivity, and over a cup of hot tea a living person will emerge — with a dry wit, a sharp irony, and a deep weariness.