It was such a neat, white, graceful pussy; and all his own pussy too, and purred and rubbed its little head on no coat-sleeve but his,--of that he was certain.

Only a bit silly.

She would still _fib_ a little, John feared, especially when he looked back to the chapter about her age,--and then, perhaps, about the cigarettes.
Well, she might, perhaps, in a wild, excited hour, have smoked _one or two_, just for fun, and the thing had been exaggerated.

She had promised fairly to return those cigarettes,--he dared not say to himself that he feared she would not.

He kept saying to himself that she would.