Ruth loved him. His eyes glowed beneath the glasses and his blue buttondown shirt was reflected in the lenses. For what indeed does she do? A simple song, no gesture, no acting, nothing. The procession now wound its way, without further interruption, along Holborn. 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.
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