She remained for some seconds crouching at the fender, poker in hand. 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. “Is that okay with you? To go down to the station with him?” “I’ll go with him, Larry. The atmosphere at dinner was not propitious. What is it you’re after? Money, I suppose. Her belly was being touched, she felt her thighs caressed softly. I don’t know why that should be so acutely humiliating.
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