A moment more and he would have been crushed beneath the ponderous board, when a slight but strong arm arrested its descent. “Listen, Annabel,” he said hoarsely. 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 walked out into the Champs Elysées and sat down.
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