C. CHAPTER XIII. People were passing in the street below. Returning in moments, Mr. 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. It was his redemption, his ticket out of hell—that blue-serge coat.
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