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. “No, I must have had hope lurking somewhere too. The streets were deserted as they drove past familiar sites. ‘Yes, like you,’ she snapped, with a venomous glance, her role evidently forgotten for the moment.
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