The terror faded from her eyes. Mr. 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. It was a large, littered, self-forgetful apartment, decorated with unframed charcoal sketches by various incipient masters; and an open bookcase, surmounted by plaster casts and the half of a human skull, displayed an odd miscellany of books—Shaw and Swinburne, Tom Jones, Fabian Essays, Pope and Dumas, cheek by jowl. "Who is it, Bess?" "How should I know?" replied Edgeworth Bess. "I've known him all my life," replied the other. She wasn’t sure of herself when she said it. “Indeed!” Anna answered indifferently. It surprises you. .
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