A pair of wood doves sang mournfully behind streamings of Spanish moss while the sun, in its difficult penetration through an over-lace of cypress tops, patterned the path and flecked the acid brown of swamp water.
For a powerless moment while the afternoon hung deadlocked Margot looked at Jimmy Smith. She took in the flashy cheapness of his good looks and dress, saw that his eyes were large and dark and sly, that his lips erased all virility from his face because of their sensitive petulance. An unmanning effect of the apparitional hit her, caused both by the scene’s unearthly setting and by Jake having settled Smith so firmly in her mind as being in Mexico.
As a result of this stuporous bewilderment she said, not too brightly: “You’re supposed to be down in Guaymas.” Smith’s grin was p
