Gerald glanced down and saw her dash at a spread of blood on his own hand, only now realising that her dagger had found its mark. “What’s odd?” “Oh, everything!” She shivered, and went to the fire and poked it. She dropped the manuscripts and swiftly brought the coat to him, noting that a button hung loose. 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. I believed I was strong enough to go on in silence; but I'm human like everybody else. Be so good as to let me pass, sir,” she added, looking her obstructor steadily in the face.
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