“Where is my beautiful wife?” He bellowed from the downstairs. 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. Opposite, his pupil stood with bowed head and clasped hands. " "But you will,—won't you?" she rejoined, looking him coaxingly in the face. Will you not remember what has passed between us? I have the right to take my place by your side.
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