“I admired your sister in Paris,” he answered, “but I do not believe that I regard her now as altogether the same person. But it’s love you should’ve had when you were tiny and I didn’t give it to you. 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. Her blood spurted into his mouth and he drank. Marvel, who, as he had helped to deprive her of her former husbands, thought himself in duty bound to offer to supply their place.
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