But you must not imagine me wrapped in melancholy. They don’t know who did it, actually. She was retuning, fifths spilling from the sliver of light underneath the door like milk. 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. Wood was dressed with more than ordinary care, and in more than ordinary finery.
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