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. And she would have to go tomorrow. He rolled onto his belly, freeing himself from her hands, pushing her away. He found himself thinking up all the psychology which he had ever read. She wondered if he was already tired of her, if he would rudely push her away as one would a prostitute. Not a scar but has its history. If there was such a thing as love at first sight, these two must epitomise it. It was her figure, her style of dress, her manner of arranging the hair.
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