The conversation was like all such conversations.
"Hello, dearie!" said Joe.
The girl turned a bland, blank face toward him. "Hello," she said.
Joe pulled up another box and sat down. "Thought you might be lonely all by yourself," he said agreeably.
"I like be by myself me," she said, affecting a naïve simplicity of speech and manner.
Joe glanced at her sharply. Her eyes were modestly cast down. He decided that she meant no offence, and went on:
"What's your name, girly?"
"Mary Black, please."
"Where do you live when you're home?"
"McIlwraith Lake. My fat'er him Scarface Jack Black. Him very good hunter."