‘But do you not see that he will come again? I think it is better if you, both of you, go and leave me here to find—’ She broke off, looking away. He was a stranger. He was really very bright and clever, with a sort of conversational boldness that was just within the limits of permissible daring. 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 would be in the library, her favorite place, or on the bench by the colored glass window with her embroidery.
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