“Yes—I—suppose so. May as well give the end of my story first—I’m a runaway.”
“Why?”
“No matter why.”
“That isn’t fair.”
He parried the indignation of her look by some further questions of his own. “Have you always lived here?”
“Always.”
“You go to the towns sometimes, I suppose.”
“I have never seen a town, except in pictures.”
“Whew! Don’t you have any friends? Any girls come to see you?”
“I never saw a girl, only myself in that poor broken glass of Angel’s; and, of course, the pictured ones—as of the towns—in the books.”