Lucy was filled with happiness, it was her third Christmas at the Becks. As he gazed down into the courts of the prison, he could not help shuddering, lest a false step might precipitate him below. Then he threw the letter at me. 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. Her family had hosted a feast in his honor for which they had taken weeks to prepare: with braised capons and lobster sausages and all sorts of delicious spiced stews her mother had made from secret recipes.
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