A wild passion of shame and self-disgust swept over her. Here was a terrific figure gnashing his teeth, and howling like a wild beast;—there a lover, with hands clasped together and eyes turned passionately upward. 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. "Good bye!" cried Jack, as if taking leave of his mistresses, "to-morrow, at the same time. Just because I attempt to seek the worst of men to kill, it doesn’t make it right. I'd do anything for Thames Darrell.
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