Pete Richard was the loneliest man in town on the day Jean Grace opened the door of his shop. It’s a small shop which had come down to him from his grandfather. The little front window was strewn with a disarray of old-fashioned things: bracelets and lockets worn in days before the Civil War, gold rings and silver boxes, images of jade and ivory, porcelain figurines1. On this winter’s afternoon a child was standing there, her forehead against the glass, earnest and enormous eyes studying each treasure as if she were looking for something quite special. Finally she straightened up with a satisfied air and entered the store.
The shadowy interior of Pete Richard’s establishment was even