In the center of the room, leaning against a high iron radiator, a small girl stared at each of us in turn, her mouth open, as if she had never seen people before.
The place had the familiar, pleasant smell of railroad stations in the country, of something compounded of wood and leather and smoke.
In the cramped space behind the ticket window, a telegraph instrument clicked intermittently, and once or twice a phone rang and the stationmaster answered it briefly. I couldn't hear what he said.
I was glad, on such a day, that we were going only as far as Gaylordsville, the third stop down the line, twenty-two minutes away.
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