He would never be able to figure out that: all these miles from Cuba, and you could get a perfecto for thirteen cents. The Law was around the corner and down the narrow hall, puffing a Virginia Slims Menthol in frantic sips, teetering uncomfortably out of an emergency exit door. He opened it—just off-hand, and then when he saw what it was he hit at the table and sent his soup spoon flying and splashing on to the tablecloth. “I don’t think I CAN do that,” she said. ’ He had abandoned the “sir”, Gerald noted, realising that the footman’s respect for him had dropped sharply.
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