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. I pledged my thumb that, dead or alive, I'd pay the wager if I lost; and I should like to be as good as my word. Her faithful servant struggled, with her assistance, to rise. ” She lifted her eyebrows. Her mind invoked her husband, who she imagined lying dead in a ditch somewhere, tortured and killed by brigands or perhaps eaten by creatures like herself, a fate he actually deserved.
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