The mail that morning had brought her a large advance from her publishers. At least, it looked large to her there in the International Zone where life was cheap.
She had opened the letter at a table of the sidewalk cafe opposite the Spanish post office.
The emotion she felt at seeing the figures on the check had made her unexpectedly generous to the beggars that constantly filed past.
Then the excitement had worn off, and she felt momentarily depressed.
The streets and the sky seemed brighter and stonger than she.
She had of necessity made very few friends in the town, and although she worked steadily every day at her novel, she had to admit that sometimes she was lonely.