Will reached to turn it off. “No”— Emma pushed gently against his hand— “no, who is that?”

“Who is what?” She was tinier than he remembered— he could wrap his arms around her and nearly hug himself, too— and he pulled her in to him and felt her heart just there against him, waiting. That was how it felt just then. Embedded in that whole sweet length— breasts and small belly and hips— her heart waited against his as they pressed together in the sweetening dark, listening to the woman carrying the war toward them, so urgently Will couldn’t stand it, he couldn’t stand there waiting anymore, and just as the woman on the radio slowed to say “This is London, Good ni— ,” he did, at last, snap it off.

Excerpted from The Postmistress by Sarah Blake. Copyright © 2010 by Sarah Blake. Excerpted by permission of Amy Einhorn Books. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.