The minister wore his Sunday smile as he stood outside the door of the First Presbyterian Church and shook hands with the small congregation filing out into the sunlight to disperse for the afternoon. For a fleeting moment his rhythm was broken when Maggie brushed by with a smile and a hasty “Good morning,” and hurried down the steps and across the lawn. The Reverend quickly returned to the shaking of hands, but the deacon’s wives swarmed together to watch as Maggie tugged at her skirt to reveal an immodest split down the middle, designed so for horseback and bicycle riding. This prompted a series of low vocalizations and raising and lowering eyebrows and lids designed not to conceal the object of their concern but to mask its intent. Thus engrossed, they watched Maggie straddle her bike a
