’ At last. The occasion is worth a dash of the grape, lad. 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. One’s sense of proportion, battered out of all shape in the daily life of cities, reasserts itself. The Night-Cellar.
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