poor

were a row of garments. Very soft-looking and luxurious. She began pulling them forth. Robes.
To the amazement of the women and children, the duchess ­began handing them out. Hesitantly, at first, then with cries of sheer pleasure as they felt the fabric—so soft! so soft!—they donned their new finery. They stood quietly as the duchess stumbled through an explan­ation. Gretchen interpreted as best she could. The new clothing would be theirs only for a time. Until their old clothing was returned, and perhaps—Gretchen was not certain, here—new clothing might be forthcoming. But they would wear the wonderful robes for a while. Until others came, others like them, who needed that same comfort.
For all the acquisitiveness of desperately poor people, Gretchen and her family accepted the news willingly enough. They were not ­Diego the Spaniard, after all, to take pleasure in the pain of others. Certainly not such others as those, who were not other at all.
When they emerged from the building, Jeff and his friends and the three older boys were already standing outside, waiting. The three boys were attired in nearly identical robes. And, like the women and children, their hair was damp with moisture.
Jeff’s friends were still dressed as they had been. But Jeff was not. He, too, stood there in a robe, his hair wet. He seemed awkward and ill at ease, especially when he saw Gretchen emerging. His eyes looked away instantly, as soon as he got his first glimpse of her.
Gretchen studied him, at first. But, soon, the study began to transform itself into something quite different. Something much softer and less calculating. Jeff, she realized,