Taking her old shoes out of the box into which Paticia had tucked them, she slipped them back on her feet and continued on her way to the Tlokweng Road. One or two people had witnessed the tragedy, or at least had seen part of it: a young man passing by, a boy on a bicycle, an old man standing in the shade of a tree. But they had only seen a woman racing after a white van and then stumbling; they had seen her bend down and change her footwear before walking off towards the main road. So might we fail to see the real sadness that lies behind the acts of others; so might we look at one of our fellow men going about his business and not know of the sorrow that he is feeling, the effort that he is making, the things he has lost.

Such men who put women down were really rather weak themselves, building themselves up by belittling women. A truly strong man would never want that.

[S]he wanted to leave the house; she wanted to be away from this silly young woman with her casual ways and her utter indifference. How could anybody be so bored with life, she wondered, when all about one there were all these things happening?

The old days: people sometimes laughed at those who talked about the old days, but Mma Ramotswe was not one of them. She knew that all of us, even the youngest, had some old days to remember. Children of ten remember how it was when they were five, just as men and women of fifty remember the way things were when they were twenty; and if those distant pasts are coated with sweetness and longing, then that might be because people indeed felt happier then.

The old van, of course, was slower than the new one , but that did not bother Mma Ramotswe in the slightest; she was not the sort of detective - or person, indeed - who needed to get anywhere fast. In her experience, the places one set off for were usually still there no matter when one arrived; it would be different, naturally enough, if towns, villages, houses moved - then one might have a real reason to hurry - but they did not.