Life is a patchwork of impressions, of vanishing personalities. " "Poor soul!" ejaculated her son. ‘I’ve eyes in my head, haven’t I?’ He grunted. ” It did begin to fall into place together. 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. Manning, in an earnest voice, and waved his hand to the alley of mauve and purple. He made it impossible not to respond, his arms tightening deliciously around hers. But be patient, I am your fast friend. And this was an adventure of which he had dreamed from boyhood: aboard a windjammer on the South Seas. Everything in this world changed—except human folly.
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