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. Ten thousand steeds appeared to be trampling aloft, charged with the work of devastation. And then came the vile experience of being forced and borne along the street to the police-station. Nobody ever called me John, that I recollect.
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