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. The sun was setting, casting long dreary shadows across deformed apple trees. He would have to make sure of her silence. “Why should it matter?” he said. . It was in this state that Mark McCloskey caught her.
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