Nicholas is dead. A moment more and he would have been crushed beneath the ponderous board, when a slight but strong arm arrested its descent. As O'Higgins signed the hotel register, his keen glance took in the latest signatures. Three times he uttered a phrase: "A djinn in a blue-serge coat!" And each time he would follow it with a chuckle—the chuckle of a soul in damnation. Jacques is very bad, and I am afraid he may die. 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. Ann Veronica considered her answer. Deny me, if you please.
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