For a moment she remained silent. ‘She’s wearing a lightskirt’s clothing?’ ‘Nothing obviously so, I assure you. " "How so?" asked Thames. 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. It mattered not whether she flunked the year as she would soon be gone. They were all stout ill-favoured men, attired in the regular jail-livery of scratch wig and snuff-coloured suit; and had all a strong family likeness to each other.
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