The jealous burn at his eyes subsided and his finger came up. "What's the matter?" demanded Jonathan, harshly. 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 was long and narrow, a well-lit, wellventilated, quiet gallery of small tables and sinks, pervaded by a thin smell of methylated spirit and of a mitigated and sterilized organic decay. 260 “Can you turn me into one?” “Yes, I can turn you into one tonight. He felt his heart beat faster and faster—his self-restraint slipping away.
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