She stepped backwards. Hidden menace; a prescience of something dreadful about to happen. 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. By the time I had recovered myself she had gone. For Mr Jarvis was beside himself when the letter come from Mr Charvill and he knew he’d lost you as well as Miss Mary. That dress she has on—my mother might have worn it.
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