“Why—it’s—it’s you!” Amazement seemed to dry up the torrents of his speech. She pocketed the sum total of his ready cash, about fortyeight dollars. Rage flooded her at his intent, but she controlled it. 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.
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