It would have been better had he succeeded in murdering her, she thought. 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 put it carefully aside, resolved to defer the attempt till night. She sat in a chair in the parlour and regarded the darkening sky through the small casement window. Jonathan, however, was nowhere to be seen. .
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