She dared not say the word aloud, not even to herself. In any place her beauty would have been an uncommon thing. 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. He grew more ardent, sliding her breasts out of the strapless bodice of her gown. “No thanks, Cathy. \" Michelle met her at her locker, right on schedule, carrying a backpack so overstuffed it was its own conversation piece.
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