She stood quite close to the bars, patiently awaiting my next question.
She had obeyed my summons like a dog who remembered a former discipline.
No curiosity, not the slightest interest; nothing but blind obedience.
The tightened grasp of these four walls had taught her this.
"Where do you come from?" I asked.
I had to begin in some way.
"From Pineyville." The voice was that of a child, with a hard, dry note
in it.
"How old is the baby?"
"Three months and ten days." She had counted the child's age. She had
thought enough for that.
"How far is Pineyville?"
"I doan' know. It took mos' all night to git here." There was no change
in the listless monotone.
"Are you going out now?"
"Yes, soon's I kin git ready."
"How are you going to get home?"
"Walk, I reckon." There was no complaint in her tone, no sudden
exhibition of any suffering. She was only stating facts.
"Have you no money?"
"No." Same bald statement, and in the same hopeless tone. She had not
moved--not even to look at the child.
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