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. “Why don’t you wear your white blouse more often? It is the prettiest shirt you own. “What has he to do with it?” “He was your sister’s master—her friend. I’ll buzz him for you. Weeks hurled past, weeks that turned into months.
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