"Haven't you got my number, yet, Cholly—haven't you?"
"What is it, little one, number scared-cat?"
She flung him a glance over the hump of one shoulder. Nineteen summers had breezed lightly over her, and her lips were cherry-like, but tilted slightly as if their fruit had been plucked from the tree of sophistication.
"You bet your life I'm scared."
"Why, out there in Glendale, little one, you won't meet your own shadow, if that's what's hurting you."
"You bet your life I won't."
"My old woman will fix you up all right."
"Oh no, she won't!"
"Aw, come on, kiddo. We're going to have a tree for the little brother, and the old woman will be rigged up like a mast in her spotted silk. Come on. Who'll be any the wiser?"
Laughter and mockery rose to the surface of her eyes, bubbled to her lips.