Kaatjie was tugging one of the sleeves of her coat on with emphasis, and some misplaced aggression, when he asked her name. She looked back up at him. Her chin jutted out again, defiant — (or it would be, if there was not a wobble in it. She was going to cry when she was no longer angry, she knew.)

Her name would out her; if he didn't know it, he at least knew her mother had been Dutch. Still, with one arm in her coat and the other still free, she folded her arms over her chest. "Kaatjie," she said, a little quiet — and trying to ignore that the pitch of her voice was higher than it had been when he first sat down.