’ ‘I do not tell you why,’ the lady uttered flatly. “I feared we might have a fog. ” He nodded twice, with his eyes on the fire, as though that was a formal statement. 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. Now what I want you to feel is this. So this was what it was all about. She got up, drew up her blind, and stared out of window at a dawn-cold vision of chimneys for a time, and then went and sat on the edge of her bed.
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