Of course, she didn’t even know this girl’s name or where she came from. Molly wondered if her slow way of talking meant she was bottle-headed. Or maybe it was because she came from Georgia or Virginia or someplace where everyone talked like that. She’d find out in the morning, she decided, blew out the candle, and squeezed herself into the narrow space on the bed beside Sally.
At dawn, Molly tiptoed out to see about the next coach to Portsmouth and returned to find Sally sitting up, watching the door.
“I put in some sugar for you,” said Molly, offering her a mug of tea.
“Ain’t you a sweetheart.”
“I’m Molly Jacobs.”
Sally nodded, and then turned her attention to the tea.
“Mmmmm.”
“Well, what’s your name?” Molly asked.
“Sally Phipps.”
“Where you from?”
“Bal’mer.”
“Is that south?” Molly asked.
Sally shrugged and beamed.
Not the sharpest knife in the drawer, Molly decided.
“How far along are you?”
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“Eh?”
She pointed to Sally’s belly. “You’re carrying, ain’t you?
You got a baby coming.”
Sally looked blank.
“Oh, no. You can’t be that simple. How long since you had your courses?”
Sally dropped her eyes. “I don’t know,” she said at last.
“A while now.”
“First time you get caught?” Molly asked.
Without her smile, the light went out, and Sally was plain as a box, with no chin to speak of and blue eyes so light they seemed almost blank.
“Well, given the size of you, it might be six months, might be less.”
“Less?” Sally said, hopefully.
“You want to leave town with me?”