She had begun to care about her appearance again, looking into the glass he gave her, a thing nearly priceless that was bordered in intricate golden filigree and rubies. Women, she had been taught, who exposed the flesh of their bodies under the eyes of man were in a special catagory of the damned. He would never be able to figure out that: all these miles from Cuba, and you could get a perfecto for thirteen cents. He was always forgetting that his tummy was fifty-four years old. She had gained respect all about town with news of her fine marriage, and her reputation as a beauty was expanding. She had exposed the real story behind Peters tragedy, that dark, handsome Chuck had killed himself by leaving the car running in the garage, not from a “heart attack” as 111 claimed the party line. On the sixth day, however, they made the strong southwest trade, and broke out the canvas, stout if dirty; and The Tigress answered as a bird released. Me—I’m nothing but a country wench, and one who went to the bad.
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