Then he went back to his rooms and lit a cigar. He would never be able to figure out that: all these miles from Cuba, and you could get a perfecto for thirteen cents. No matter what the fire and force of his passion, it falters eventually, and forever after smoulders or goes out. Then he rallied, smiling a little. And yet—I love you. ‘I said you were sympathique,’ she told him. She seemed smitten with a paroxysm of fear. "Fool!" he cried, "do you think I wouldn't have secured you before this if I hadn't some motive for my forbearance?" "And that motive is fear," replied Jack contemptuously. ” She thanked him with one of her shy little glances. ” He looked at her thoughtfully. “I’m so glad you’re here, Peter,” she said.
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