“Here, please,” said the Judge gently, as though he were about to answer that question, and as she passed Hale she seemed to swerve her skirts aside that they might not touch him.
“Swear her.”
June lifted her right hand, put her lips to the soiled, old, black Bible and faced the jury and Hale and Bad Rufe Tolliver whose black eyes never left her face.
“What is your name?” asked a deep voice that struck her ears as familiar, and before she answered she swiftly recalled that she had heard that voice speaking when she entered the door.
“June Tolliver.”
“Your age?”
“Eighteen.”
“You live—”
“In Lonesome Cove.”
“You are the daughter of—”