One day they were at tea in the laboratory and a discussion sprang up about the question of women’s suffrage. She stopped eating. "I've said it," rejoined Jonathan, peremptorily. 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. The boy was right. I say, I'll take the yarn over and read it to McClintock. She did not open the Bible but laid it on the edge of the bed, knelt and rested her forehead upon the worn leather cover. She had always had a wonderful ear for phrasing, even back in the days of the viol.
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