’ For a moment or two there was dead silence in the parlour. 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. Besides this, the door was crossed and recrossed by iron bars, clenched by broad-headed nails. He was holding the ring to the light, and narrowly examining the inscription. You haven’t an idea what the sort of employment you could get there would be like, the sort of people you would be mixed up with. It was comforting to have her there, snoring gently.
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