There's our young friend upstairs. Snatching-up his pistols, he rushed to the door, but to his horror found it fastened. 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. And she was as shrewd as they come. She had Cathy’s predisposition to overweight and her hips were solid and thick under her jeans. Through all this flutter of novelty there came and went a solicitous, preoccupied, almost depressed figure.
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