" "God help me, what a muddle!" The cigar crumbled in Spurlock's hand. I naturally want to do it up in proper style. 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. Lucy looked at the stains on the threadbare carpeting to distract herself, embarrassed to her core. Her stifled misery had betrayed her.
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