It quickly became apparent that he was poor. Not just poor, but 'homeless'-level poor. Despite her problems in life, Charity had never worried about homelessness, nor did she have experience with anyone who had. His clothes were dirty and ragged, and he was just the same. Dirt covered his patched-up shirt and even extended onto his wrists, and he smelled like he hadn't bathed in days.
"I don't have a mother, either, and I know better than to go touching other people without their permission," she said, and regretted it almost a moment later. It was true, but it was harsh, and there was no way to compare the two apart form their lack of mothers. She had a pretty, clean dress that Uncle Evander had bought her, while his rags—oh she couldn't get past them!—looked like they hadn't been mended in months.
"If you wanted a book so badly, you could go to the library. You don't have to steal from me," she said, a little softer yet still not in the empathetic tone she was aiming for. He was just... dirty. Stinky.
"I don't have a mother, either, and I know better than to go touching other people without their permission," she said, and regretted it almost a moment later. It was true, but it was harsh, and there was no way to compare the two apart form their lack of mothers. She had a pretty, clean dress that Uncle Evander had bought her, while his rags—oh she couldn't get past them!—looked like they hadn't been mended in months.
"If you wanted a book so badly, you could go to the library. You don't have to steal from me," she said, a little softer yet still not in the empathetic tone she was aiming for. He was just... dirty. Stinky.
