A thousand eager assistants pressed behind him. They walked across a moat of pea gravel that crunched like noisy cereal under their feet. Stanley, standing up with a sudden geniality and rubbing his hands together. Denis, did you say? I hope that no one of our friends has met with an accident. 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. Outside in the hall he paused and thoughtfully stroked his smooth blue chin.
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