"Three months and ten days." She had counted the child's age. She had thought enough for that.
"How far is Pineyville?"
"I doan' know. It took mos' all night to git here." There was no change in the listless monotone.
"Are you going out now?"
"Yes, soon's I kin git ready."
"How are you going to get home?"
"Walk, I reckon." There was no complaint in her tone, no sudden exhibition of any suffering. She was only stating facts.
"Have you no money?"
"No." Same bald statement, and in the same hopeless tone. She had not moved—not even to look at the child.
"What's the fare?"