She felt smaller and more adventurous even than she had expected to feel. The chair had extension arms over which a man might comfortably dangle his legs. She had time in the afternoons to do crewelwork and embroidery, no longer occupied by the constant spinning of wool. He would never be able to figure out that: all these miles from Cuba, and you could get a perfecto for thirteen cents. Instead, she laughed, laughed with lips and eyes, laughed till the tears ran down her cheeks. "'Odd's-my-life!—what's that?" he cried, greatly alarmed. I told her it was the end. ” She shook her head.
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