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. ‘Damnation!’ Confused, he released her, and in an instant she had darted away and was running down the garden. She reeled in excitement, she unzipped his pants while kissing him, trying not to let herself stop touching him as she unclothed him. He had pictured her, if indeed she had ever had the courage to do this thing, as sitting alone, convulsed with guilty fear, starting at her own shadow, a slave to constant terror.
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