Her brown curls were pulled tight in a severe chignon. The boy would never know just how lucky he was. There would be no mercy in this man. A dreamy sense of content crept over him. Winifred, you are deceived in me. “Well——” She stopped short. 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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