He drove her to the Beck house, pulling up behind Cathy's red Nissan. I’m rather scornful. 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. Twice Spurlock went to Copeley's—twenty miles to the northwest—for ice and mail. It was very much like a real house, with one central stalagmite that looked like a column and a waterfall that served when she wanted to bathe. Her amusement fled and she stared at him, as a slow thump began beating at her breast.
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