"Methinks we are all damned," said Deborah Wilkins. "Certes we are not in heaven unless our good pastors have been led sorely astray. And if they have been led astray they must indeed be tools of the devil, which leaves us small chance of salvation."
There was a neat syllogistic logic to her reasoning that brought Justin up short. This girl, who or whatever she might be, possessed both fearlessness and intellect. He said, "You don't seem to be afraid of hell, Deborah."
An unexpected dimple appeared in one smooth cheek. She said, "Thus far there seems little to be afeard of, Master Charles." Then, eying him with frank curiosity, "What sort of attire are ye clad in? I have seen nought like it."
"I might say the same of yours," he replied as frankly.
She blushed. "And ye'r accent—surely 'tis not Boston."
"It has a Midwestern base," he told her. Then, "But yours too is strange, Deborah. You see, I come from a time almost two centuries after yours. And as for my 'attire'—like you I was snatched from sleep to come here. These are what is known as pajamas."
She came forward, fingered the material, said, "They are as fine as silk—yet they are not silk."
"If I told you what they were made of you wouldn't believe me," he said. "It is called nylon, Deborah."
"A strange term," she said thoughtfully. Then with a sudden flash of blue eyes, "Methinks ye make free of my name for a man so young and so recently acquainted."
"I'm not so young," he told her, "I'm forty-one. As for calling you by your first name, if you object...."