That night in his den he smoked many pipes. Then he took the pulse. She turned towards the door, and had taken a pace towards it when it was flung open. ‘Do that again,’ he said softly, ‘and I’ll make you sorry you ever came to England. ‘You’re the most troublesome wretch I’ve ever encountered,’ he told her bitterly. Do have another. And finally, my special thanks to the Queenie music fans around the world. 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. He could not pull her soul apart now to satisfy that queer absorbing, delving thing which was his literary curiosity; he had put her outside that circle.
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