One glance through the window at that picturesque head had been sufficient. Her mother informed her of the betrothal on the first painful day of her menarche, shortly after her eleventh birthday. 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. ‘Will you let be?’ Instead she grasped his hand tighter. Jonathan is in league with Sir Rowland to make away with you. You do not make me afraid like this. She was sick of herself, of her life, of everything but him; and for him all her masked and hidden being was crying out. "You will spare the officers a labour then," rejoined Jonathan.
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