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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 could feel teenage girls from all corners of the room tensing, preparing to shriek. She thought of the smiles she would gather when she brought forth his first grandson. However, to cut a long matter short, my proposal's this: —I've taken a fancy to your bantling, and, as I've no son of my own, if it meets with your concurrence and that of Mrs. Gentlemen! a glass of brandy will be no bad finish to our meal. . He thanked God for this talent of his.
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