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 saw it, and checked without thinking. Sated, he rolled off her body and retired to his quarters. "The night before last, Mr. "'Odd's-my-life!—what's that?" he cried, greatly alarmed. ’ She was silent for a space, and it was evident that this part of the story was still too painful to be recalled with ease.
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