Somewhere in the world there was a book clerk with a discerning mind; for he had given her the best he had. E. 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. “No, no,” she cried. “Perhaps,” she said, “it is the London climate. That delightful sense of free, unembarrassed movement was gone. .
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