Wood, in a whisper, as he filled a rummer to the brim, not to forget the health of the Chevalier de Saint George—a proposition to which the lady immediately responded by drinking the toast aloud. 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. You won’t have a man’s lips near you, but you’ll eat out of his hand fast enough. The day before this examination was appointed to take place—the third of the prisoner's detention—an old man, respectably dressed, requested permission to see him.
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