“How old would you say she was?”
“Not over twenty-six.”
“Twenty-six.” A suspicious glint darkened Wanza’s blue eyes. “Pretty?”
“Yes.”
The eyes glowered.
“Thirty a month would be a help, now, Wanza, wouldn’t it?” I wheedled.
Wanza threw out both arms, dropped back on the grass and lay with closed eyes. Presently she murmured faintly: “Did you say thirty a month?”
“I said thirty a month,” I repeated firmly.
One eye opened. Wanza kicked a pine cone into the river, opened the other eye, and stared at the tips of her copper-toed shoes fixedly.
“Thirty a month added to twenty-four—Mm! I could go to school next year, Mr. Dale.”