Her thoughts took words for themselves. Anna opened a cupboard and produced cups and saucers and a tin of coffee. And there was no intimation whatever that the blinds would ever go up or the windows or doors be opened, or the chandeliers, that seemed to promise such a blaze of fire, unveiled and furnished and lit. 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. Anna was sitting before the fire a little distance from him—Ennison himself remained standing. I believe—I believe that I must risk it. You know the sort of thing. The Father did not know of course about her connection with the Valades. I’m not a psycho. Here was a hole as wide as a church-door. It was necessary to think, and think quickly.
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