You are an artist by the Divine right of birth, but whatever form of expression may come to you at some time it will not be painting. The vault, in which Sir Rowland found himself, resembled in some measure the cabin of a ship. 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. Wood; but they never come now.
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