“I repeat, gentlemen,” he said, in an ominously low tone, “what of it?” Drummond shrugged his shoulders. Not daring, however, to listen to it, he ran on. 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.
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