“Look, do you remember what Maria used to call it?” The Consul, with his stick, was indicating through the trees the little American grocery store, catercorner to Cortez Palace. “Peegly Weegly.”
“I won’t,” Yvonne thought, hurrying on and biting her lips. “I won’t cry.”
The Consul had taken her arm. “I’m sorry, I never thought.”
They emerged on the street again. When they had crossed it she was grateful for the excuse suggested by the printer’s shop window for readjustment. They stood, as once, looking in. The shop, adjacent to the Palace, but divided from it by the breadth of a steep narrow street desperate as a winze, was opening early. From the mirror within the window an ocean creature so drenched and coppered by sun and winnowed by sea-wind and spray looked back at her she seemed, e
