That at least was understandable.

But to her there was something uncanny about his being here in Nogales.

When he was gone, she stepped out through the open window to the veranda that ran the whole length of the hotel, and looked across the street into Mexico.
She was, she decided critically, about fifteen feet from the boundary line.

Just across the street fluttered the Mexican flag from the Mexican customhouse.

A Mexican guard lounged against the wall, his swarthy face mask-like in its calm.