“Have you got to keep her now?” “To the best of my ability,” said Mr. "Your faults were the faults of circumstances. She held it away from her with an instinctive repulsion, born of her unconquerable antipathy to the touch of strangers. 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. Inexplicably there flashed into vision the Chinese wedding procession in the narrow, twisted streets of the city, that first day: the gorgeous palanquin, the tomtoms, the weird music, the ribald, jeering mob that trailed along behind.
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