“I suppose so.” Her voice was small, faraway.
Acting on a sudden suspicion, he groped around in the street for the flashlight, found it and put the beam on her face. The face was white with the last lingering traces of her fright, her eyes wide and brilliant blue in the darkness. She flinched under the probing beam.
“Mother of Moses — you're just a kid!”
“I'm not,” she snapped. “I'm nineteen.”
“You're a liar. You're just a kid, fifteen or sixteen maybe.”
“I'm nineteen,” she insisted. “I can prove it.”
“How?” he asked skeptically, dousing the flash.
“I'm in college — a junior.”
“That doesn't mean a thing to me.” He stared along the street, alert for any movement in the night. Turning over her answer, he admitted grudgingly: “Well, maybe seventeen.”
“Nineteen,” she still insisted.