"Might, p'raps."
"Go on, then. Tell me one."
She began a story, which was obviously an improvisation, with little incidents taken from other stories added to it. It was full of the wildest imaginings. She told it without the least nervousness or embarrassment. Her assumption of demureness and sanctity vanished utterly. She became vivid and dramatic. "An' I'd tike my gorspil oath it's all true," she added, at the conclusion, as if from force of habit.
"JULIA SANBY," I said, "GAZEY has not got golden hair nor blue eyes, neither is she pretty. You are GAZEY."
"I swear I ain't. I'm a good girl, and knows my colics; GAZEY's something orful."
"Very well," I answered, and went on finishing the sketch, as though I took no interest in her. After a few seconds' silence, she added, quite calmly,
"Owdjer know? I can pretend proper, cawn't I? But I 'adn't never talked about myself as if I was someone else afore. That pickshur ain't much like me."
"It will be when it's finished. Come to-morrow at the same time."
"Do you think I'm a liar?"
"You're either a liar or an artist, but I'm not sure which."