"I dunno what kind of a man you are, Terry. I didn't ever know a man could stick by—folks—after they'd been hurt by 'em. I couldn't do it. I ain't got much Bible stuff in me, Terry. Why, when somebody does me a wrong, I hate 'em—I hate 'em! And I never forgive 'em till I get back at 'em." She sighed. "But you're different, I guess. I begin to figure that you're pretty white, Terry Hollis."
There was something so direct about her talk that he could not answer. It seemed to him that there was in her a cross between a boy and a man—the simplicity of a child and the straightforward strength of a grown man, and all this tempered and made strangely delightful by her own unique personality.
"But I guessed it the first time I looked at you," she was murmuring. "I guessed that you was different from the rest."
She had her elbow on her knee now, and, with her chin cupped in the graceful hand, she leaned toward him and studied him.
"When they're clean-cut on the outside, they're spoiled on the inside. They're crooks, hard ones, out for themselves, never giving a rap about the next gent in line. But mostly they ain't even clean on the outside, and you can see what they are the first time you look at 'em.
"Oh, I've liked some of the boys now and then; but I had to make myself like 'em. But you're different. I seen that when you started talking. You didn't sulk; and you didn't look proud like you wanted to show us what you could do; and you didn't boast none. I kept wondering at you while I was at the piano. And—you made an awful hit with me, Terry."
Again he was too staggered to reply. And before he could gather his wits, the girl went on:
"Now, is they any real reason why you shouldn't get out of here tomorrow morning?"
It was a blow of quite another sort.
"But why should I go?"