It did seem in so many ways exactly what Ramage said it was—the sensible thing to do. ‘She would say, espéce de diable, this Melusine. They happen to a man. It was as if her finite human brain could only store a limit of information, details like hair color and fingernail shape easily jettisoned to make room for the nuances of a grin or the emotion of a shoulder blade. Then she looked up the sweep of pine-trees to the towering sunlit cliffs and the high heaven above and then back to his face. “You’re getting too old to put things off, John. 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.
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