If nothing else, the years have taught them how to smile. Also, how to draw in divisions between your teeth with a thick black pencil. It’s a clever piece of copy; makes you think that the shortening you were using may actually be 30 years old.

Keep in mind Jenny would be in her fifties, right? That means she’s between the age when a woman can worry about her figure and how they’re wearing their hair in the City, and the age when you just wear black from head to toe and make sure your neck is covered. Her hair has a wave; it’s not bound up in a bun. That comes when you’re in your later 50s. At her age, though, a woman has to be sensible, and not go chasin’ after fads and fashions and understand what a fool you make of yourself when you go to town on errands come a Saturday, and show some leg. Lordy massy me, after you go through the Change, that’s the last thing you need, a man pawin’ you up and down with his eyes. You save that for home and you count yourself lucky you got a man what compliments you on your shapely wrists, and says they’re just as sweet as the day you were married.

And you know what? They are. Nothin’ wrong about being proud for the wrists what the Good Lord gave you.