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. He was bringing the sing-song girl to the hotel! The strange cortège presently vanished below the window-sill. Shall I send him to Sir John?” Annabel was white to the lips, but her anger was not yet spent. “Tell me,” she insisted, “why you look like that. To think of him as loving her would make all that different. I am altogether a person of a disposition extremely interfering, as you have so often told me.
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