"Why?"
"The woods were dangerous—real Inj'ans."
"I've seen real ones—not wild, though." She came nearer, not by walking but by a side-to-side evolution of spread feet, carrying her like a statue on small wheels. "Christian Indians, talked English all piggedy-gulp."
"I remember an old Indian at Deerfield, supposed to be a Christian. A Pocumtuck. Wore a cast-off bodice for a breechclout, and was alway——" Ben remembered the failing of Captain Jenks—"was alway a little foolish."
"Faith is dressing her hair different, the which you're obliged to notice or she'll be in a taking, the which I think is poo."
"I'll be sure to notice it, Mistress Charity."
"Be you"—Charity jerked her head; upstairs Ben could hear a muted ripple of women's voices—"in love with her?"
Ben evaded. "Charity, I've met her but the once."
No good. "I thought a person alway knew."
"Oh—maybe they do and I'm just foolish."