The Robin staggered through the narrow passageways of the Cragg, his satchel laden with correspondence.  He silently cursed his lot, why did these folks need post anyways? t's not like many of them could read. 

Still, it was his job to get letters and bills to the correct persons in this hodgepodge of houses. He knew many of the families here by heart: there were the Smiths on the east end, the Smiths on the west end, the Russells with pies so sweet, and the Derricks they lived here too.

Then there were the Wards.

In the opinion of this humble civil servant of Her Majesty's Royal Mail, old man Ward was a sour old bastard in both odour and temperament. His daughter was pleasant enough, the one with the wild ginger hair. She was the one who quietly took the post from his hand. Compare her to the grumbling or the shower of spittle. For that family it was mostly bills..

Today would be different. He had a package to deliver to the Wards. Getting rid of it would lighten his burden considerably. Wrapped in brown paper and twine, it had the feel of something soft and was addressed to Anne Ward. There was no sender, rather a middle aged woman stopphim and asked "would ye mind? if yer goin' that way anyway..." 

The two extra shillings jangling in his pocket was proof that he did not if fact mind at all.