Spurling, for so was she named, had a warm nut-brown complexion, almost as dark as a Creole; and a moustache on her upper lip, that would have done no discredit to the oldest dragoon in the King's service. She went on her way now no longer dreaming and appreciative, but disturbed and unwillingly observant behind her mask of serene contentment. ‘Grace à vous, I am compelled to rescue myself. It came with an extreme effect of re-discovery, a remarkable novelty. The next minute, I contrived, without either of 'em perceiving me, to convey it into my own pocket. The likelihood is that I shan’t see the wench again. Um.
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