“But what are you?” she continued, suddenly changing her tone. “You are not a Mexican? Are you soldier or civilian?”
“What would you take me for?”
“A poet, from your pale face, but more from the manner in which I have heard you sigh.”
“I have not sighed since we sat down.”
“No—but before we sat down.”
“What! in the dance?”
“No—before the dance.”
“Ha! then you observed me before?”
“O yes, your plain dress rendered you conspicuous among so many uniforms; besides your manner—”
“What manner?” I asked, with some degree of confusion, fearing that in my search after Isolina I had committed some stupid piece of left-handedness.