” She realized it was possible to be sorry for him—acutely sorry for the situation. She entered and approached the bunk. Racing, he reached it perhaps a moment or two later. “It is strange that we should have met Annabel,” she said. The unexpected twist—his disclosure to McClintock—had given Spurlock but temporary relief. Rain started to pummel the roof of the pavilion, which coalesced into sheets and rumbled to the cement below. 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.
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