postcard

Nor had the children received so much as a picture postcard from Penelope, though she too wrote to them daily.

But there had been no word from Simon since his departure—not a letter, not a scrap of dramatic verse, not even a picture postcard from the beach at Brighton.

There had been no letters, no telegrams, and not a single picture postcard.

“After all, not even Edith-Anne Pevington wrote postcards to Rainbow, clever pony that he was,” she thought as she helped the little girl squirm her arms into the sleeves.

On his honeymoon, he sent a postcard back to Harvard: “She’s 19; she’s beautiful; and she’s all mine.”