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. ‘Pardon, milor’,’ said Valade, ‘but Monsieur Charvill, he was not at fault. “I would like to go home,” she cried, “to please her. Spurling. ” “You did not notice anything which may have escaped this lady? You saw no one leave the flats?” “No one,” Brendon answered.
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