“Gods,” she said, at last, “I’ve done it this time!” “Well!” She took up the neat morocco purse, opened it, and examined the contents. As she talked, the drift and significance of what she was saying shaped itself slowly to Ann Veronica’s apprehension. Mr. "Stop thief!" clamoured the rabble behind. He bowed over her hand, venturing to drop a kiss on it’s leathery surface. She was going to him soon and certainly, going to his strong, embracing arms. She leaned back in the cab with half-closed eyes. I do swear. He would never be able to figure out that: all these miles from Cuba, and you could get a perfecto for thirteen cents.
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