She lived in a shack, if you could call the ramshackle geometry of aluminum and cork a shack. It almost blocked the rain and, if the naked mattress was collapsed and a bit mildewed, at least it was mostly dry.
She never lacked for visitors. It didn’t matter that she was Indian or had a pack of children scavenging round the place like stray dogs. The fact that she rarely spoke to anyone—and when she did, her accent was so thick as to be almost completely unintelligible—spoke highly in her favor.
She was the most beautiful widow in town.