complete quiet composure.
When coffee came she looked at the two men at the other table, and at the two men at her own table.
“I’ve had enough of canaille, of any sort,” she said.
“Oh, I understand, perfectly,” said Owen.
After dinner, she went to her room. And through the night she could not sleep, but lay listening to the noises of Mexico City, then to the silence and the strange, grisly fear that so often creeps out on to the darkness of a Mexican night. Away inside her, she loathed Mexico City. She even feared it. In the daytime it had a certain spell—but at night, the underneath grisliness and evil came forth.
In the morning Owen also announced that he had not slept at all.
“Oh, I never