"The shops were shut," he said. "I arrived after closing time."
But something in his tone rendered this grim announcement nugatory. Annunziata drew a long breath, and looked up again. "You have brought me something, all the same," she declared with conviction; and eagerly, eyes gleaming, "What is it? What is it?" she besought him.
John laughed. "You are quite right," he said. "If one can't buy, beg, or borrow, in this world, one can generally steal."
Annunziata drew away, regarded him with misgiving. "Oh, no; you would never steal," she protested.
"I'm not so sure—for one I loved," said he. "What would you have liked me to bring you?"
Annunziata thought. "I liked those chocolate cigars," she said, her face soft with reminiscence of delight.
"Ah, but we mustn't have it toujours perdrix," said John. "Do you, by any chance, like marchpane?"
"Marchpane?—I adore it," she answered, in an outburst of emotion.
"You have your human weaknesses, after all," John laughed. "Well, I stole a pocketful of marchpane."
Annunziata drew away again, her little white forehead furrowed. "Stole?" she repeated, reluctant to believe.