It feels like too much gold-dust clutched in one’s hand. I didn’t dream, not even in my wildest dreaming, that—you might have any need of me. He stood before her. 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. “Really, Sir John,” she said, “I don’t know how to thank you. “That beast of a fellow is certain to be hanging about. “I am much obliged to you,” he said. It is magnificent indeed.
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