más que amable, con una mirada ladina de sus ojos miopes—. Ya sé quién es la novia de Tommy, Gerty es la novia de Tommy.
—No, dijo Tommy al borde de las lágrimas.
El ingenio rápido de Cissy adivinó lo que pasaba y le susurró a Edy Boardman que lo llevase allí detrás del cochecito donde los caballeros no pudieran ver y que tuviera cuidado de no mojarle los zapatos nuevos de color marrón claro.
Pero ¿quién era Gerty?
Gerty MacDowell who was seated near her companions, lost in thought, gazing far away into the distance was in very truth as fair a specimen of winsome Irish girlhood as one could wish to see.
She was pronounced beautiful by all who knew her though, as folks often said, she was more a Giltrap than a MacDowell. Her figure was slight and graceful, inclining even to fragility but those iron jelloids she had been taking of late had done her a world of good much better than the Widow Welch’s female pills and she was much better of those discharges she used to get and that tired feeling.
The waxen pallor of her face was almost spiritual in its ivorylike purity though her rosebud mouth was a genuine Cupid’s bow, Greekly perfect. Her hands were of finely veined alabaster with tapering fingers and as white as lemon juice and queen of ointments could make them though it was not true that she used to wear kid gloves in bed or take a milk footbath either.
Bertha Supple le contó eso una vez a Edy Boardman, una mentira deliberada, cuando estaba achispada y a la greña con Gerty (las amigas del alma tenían por supuesto sus pequeñas riñas de vez en cuando como el resto de los mortales) y le dijo