She passed inside and upstairs without a word. 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. Along the inner side was a wonderfully arranged series of displayed specimens that Russell himself had prepared. It would be useless to tell her to go back, even heartless; and yet he could not advise her to go on, blindly, not knowing whether her aunt was dead or alive. So the world is choked with waste and waiting daughters.
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