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. She pulled his shirt from its tucked belted state and snaked her hands around his waist. The way it had happened was stupid, absurd. Unless you have removed all references to Project Gutenberg: 1. His energy began to slip away and she sank her teeth into his fat carotid artery below the piano wire, which had drawn blood from his neck.
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