He would never be able to figure out that: all these miles from Cuba, and you could get a perfecto for thirteen cents. ’ ‘Why should I?’ ‘Because I can’t live without you!’ ‘That is your own affair, and—’ Melusine broke off, staring at him, shocked realisation kicking in her gut. Gin is the poor man's friend,—his sole set-off against the rich man's luxury. “More coffee, hon?” She held her hand over the cup.
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