Your speaking of the trial brings the whole scene to my mind. The thought of beauty became an obsession. “Please forgive me coming up, Miss Pellissier, but you have not been down to dinner for three nights, and—Brendon and I—we were afraid that you might be unwell. As he passed along the main thoroughfare, he heard his own name pronounced, and found that it was a hawker, crying a penny history of his escapes. He was a just man, and he did not care to start any thunder which was not based upon fairness. He would never be able to figure out that: all these miles from Cuba, and you could get a perfecto for thirteen cents.
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