She stood up and he sat down at the microscope, and for a time he was busy scrutinizing one section after another. "By G—! she has missed her footing. Ah! how I wish, poor dear Sir Cecil were alive! he'd keep him in order. I’ve seen him, and he doesn’t a bit understand. 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. Fast asleep, he is.
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