Hank turned. She was somewhere in her late twenties, he estimated. And if her clothes, voice and appearance were any criterion he'd put her in the middle-middle class with a bachelor's degree in something or other, unmarried and with the aggressiveness he didn't like in American girls after living the better part of eight years in Latin countries.
On top of that she was one of the prettiest girls he had ever seen, in a quick, red headed, almost puckish sort of way.
Hank tried to keep from displaying his admiration too openly. "American?" he said.
"That's right." She took in his five-foot ten, his not quite ruffled hair, his worried eyes behind their rimless lenses, darkish tinted for the Peruvian sun. She evidently gave him up as not worth the effort and turned to the fright behind the counter.
"I came to pick up my tickets."
"Oh, yes, Miss...."
"Moore."
The fright fiddled with the papers on an untidy heap before her. "Oh, yes. Miss Charity Moore."
"Charity?" Hank said.
She turned to him. "Do you mind? I have two sisters named Honor and Hope. My people were the Seventh Day Adventists. It wasn't my fault." Her voice was pleasant—but nature had granted that; it wasn't particularly friendly—through her own inclinations.