"What?… Oh!… Well, good Lord!" He wrenched loose his head and stood up, sending the chair clattering to the floor. Charley Pevenill was our host. And now, when you come at last, you bring me this grandfather, and you dare to tell me I am like him. ” She stared before her, trying to keep back a rush of tears. This laughter released something that had been striving for expression—her own natural buoyancy. Spurlock had not coached her on this line of conduct. 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.
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