She went on down sunny street, stopping once to ask Billy Moore why he wasn't out riding in his daddy's shiny new car, and talking for a few minutes outside the library with Miss Chandler, the librarian.
Miss Chandler seemed absentminded and very much as though she were thinking about something else. Miss Strangeworth noticed that Miss Chandler had not taken much trouble with her hair that morning , and sighed. Miss Strangeworth hated sloppiness. Many people seemed disturbed recently, Miss Strangeworth thought.
Only yesterday the Stewart's fifteen-year-old Linda had run crying down her own front walk and all the way to school, not caring who say her. People around town thought she might have had a fight with the Harris boy,
But they showed up together at the soda shop after school as usual, both of them looking grim and bleak. Trouble at home, people concluded, and sighed over the problems of trying to raise kids right these days.
From halfway down the block Miss Strangeworth could catch the heavy scent of her roses, and she moved a little more quickly. The perfume of roses meant home, and home meant the Strangeworth House on Pleasant Street.
Miss Strangeworth stopped at her own front gate, as she always did, and looked with deep pleasure at her house, with red and pink and white roses massed along the narrow lawn, and the rambler going up along the porch; and the neat, the unbelievably trim lines of the house itself, with its slimness and its whitewashed white look.