” “That’s rather a fine sort of holiday!” He made no answer for three or four seconds. 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. She wanted to think of him as her beloved person, to be near him and watch him, to have him going about, doing this and that, saying this and that, unconscious of her, while she too remained unconscious of herself. As the woollendraper's back was towards him, he did not perceive him, but continued his passionate addresses. ” Her eyes were lit with humour. Good-bye. In the heart of the jungle the dog had his private muck baths.
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