She was big, too, for a woman; somewhat lank
but well muscled, and decisive in her motions as if she normally
abounded in strength. What grace she had was an athlete's, but she
looked overtrained or undernourished. Seeing that she did not look
well, Dyckman said:
"How well you're looking, Charity."
She did not look like Charity, either; but her name had been given
to her before she was born. There had nearly always been a girl
called Charity in the Coe family. They had brought the name with
them from New England when they settled in Westchester County some
two hundred years before. They had kept little of their Puritanism
except a few of the names.
This sportswoman called Charity had been trying to live up to her
name, of late. That was why she was haggard. She smiled at her
friend's unmerited praise.
"Thanks, Jim. I need a compliment like the devil."
"Where've you been since you got back?"
"Up in the camp, trying to get a little rest and exercise. But it's
too lonesome nights. I rest better when I keep on the jump."
"You're in black; that doesn't mean--?"
She shook her head. A light of eagerness in his eyes was quenched,
and he growled:
"Too bad!" He could afford to say it, since the object of his obloquy
was alive. If the person mentioned had not been alive, the phrase
he used would have been the same more gently intoned.
Charity protested: "Shame on you! I know you mean it for flattery,
but you mustn't, you really mustn't.
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