Her hand came out through the flowers with an inconsequent, childish flourish of the fingers close by the grave face of Marcos.

He was essentially a man of his word; and she jerked her hand away from his lips with a gay laugh.
"Marcos," she said, "the packets must be small or they will not come through." "I have had them made small on purpose," he said.

But she seemed to have forgotten the chocolates already, for her hand did not come back.
"I'm trying to see through," she explained, after a moment.

"I can see nothing, only something black.

I see.