She had never been able to discover where her father had hidden his shaving mirror. “I’m inclined to think, Stanley, myself that as a matter of fact it was the expurgated Romeo and Juliet did the mischief. She had fled back to Florence quite intent on slitting the new bride’s throat. “There are no males at men to stare; A man scores always, everywhere. 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 would never again be lonely.
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