” “Not yet,” he said. And yet to Spurlock it was only the title of a story he would some day write. ” “Then I,” she said, “have too much character. It throbs cruelly. It was a moment or two before Gerald realised that he could feel the fluttering of her pulse beneath the light touch he had on her wrist, and that her fingers were trembling in his. He would never be able to figure out that: all these miles from Cuba, and you could get a perfecto for thirteen cents. . She decided that she would try to push whatever resolve he had in the car to see where it would lead. “I have been very selfish,” she declared. “You cannot seriously believe,” he said, “that at the present moment I care a snap of the fingers whether I have any dinner or not.
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