She meant to leave anyway, or so she would tell herself later. Though nearly dark, there was still light enough left to enable him to discern surrounding objects. You can do anything you please. She had tried him as a Crusader, in which guise he seemed plausible but heavy—“There IS something heavy about him; I wonder if it’s his mustache?”—and as a Hussar, which made him preposterous, and as a Black Brunswicker, which was better, and as an Arab sheik. There’d only be endless rows if I was at home.
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