It was not a cambric curtain Ruth had drawn across that part of her life: it was of iron. 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. Dieu du ciel! Gerald was kissing her! She struggled to be free, and the arms that held her loosened, the lips leaving hers. She thought of Sebastian who often returned from the charnel house that the outside world had become.
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