The hand was superbly gloved—brownish back, fawn-colored palm, and the thumb half and half. The lovely, thick glacé leather was like custard, with the seams so beautifully hand-sewn that it made you want to count the stitches. Though snuggling comfortably, the hand was still nimble in them … ideal gloves for riding under the oaks on an autumn day.
The young woman watched her hand as it picked up bits of merchandise on display here and there. As it flexed, the glove stretched lightly over the graceful depressions of the knuckles, then, as the fingers stretched out farther, a completely different network of wrinkles sank across the gloves. They were really too pretty for her overly long hair, and for the tweedy tailored suit which showed signs of wear. From time to time a sales girl would break in: “You wanted something, Madam?”
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