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. When I gave him an invitation to supper, I little thought he'd accept it. “What’s going on with you?” John asked inquisitively, looking down at her abdomen. He had adroitly captured her and led her away from her other guests on the pretext of feigning an interest in her charitable attitude to the newly arrived French.
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