Description
The more she aged, the darker Abigail Tucker’s solitary world had to be. Electric lights cost money. The cost of those twisty bulbs meant that, when the cheap but no longer made bulbs died, another lamp became only a decoration that needed dusted like her many knick-knacks spread on shelves and stands. She dreaded the three months left of winter that required so many blankets when watching television or reading, because she didn’t dare risk the price of setting the thermostat above fifty degrees. Hating winter meant she had to hate Christmas, too, for she knew not another human being, nobody, to make for some joy in the holiday.
Avis
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