The note-passer lagged behind with her. ‘And you, my girl, if you’d been born at all, would have been just what you think you are. Tears flowed in rivulets down 121 her cheeks and she began to cry. The crown has passed from the brow of one monarch to that of another. The same look she had often seen in the eyes of the drunken beachcombers her father had brought home, and it had not filled her with horror. I trust that she will not misunderstand me. He would never be able to figure out that: all these miles from Cuba, and you could get a perfecto for thirteen cents.
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