He saw that she was tense. 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. He was shifting to reach his own weapon, which had fallen in between the pews at the back. ‘As I have said, it was a quarrel between the vicomte and Monsieur Charvill. But he was not a father one could make much of. Ennison,” she exclaimed, “is that really you?” There was no sign of embarrassment in her manner.
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