“And you?” “Same thing. She was alone, and the mask of her unchanging high spirits was for the moment laid aside. He would never be able to figure out that: all these miles from Cuba, and you could get a perfecto for thirteen cents. It now came to him with an added thrill how well she had told her story; simply and directly, no skipping, no wandering hither and yon: from the first hour she could remember, to the night she had fled in the proa, a clear sustained narrative. I’m sorry. He was staring at her, openly gaping.
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