Will you unlock that door?” “Never!” he said. Roof open —like a Noah’s Ark. He reappeared in street clothes, his cropped hair not even damp from the shower, fresh-faced and sweetsmelling. "How go you like your quarters, sauce-box?" asked Sharples, in a jeering tone. She crept behind the open door and pounced on him when he came out of the bathroom, knocking him onto the floor with a loud thud. 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. She could feel her face turning beet red. “It’s the stir of spring,” he said. Flinging her back against it, she put her hands out, barring his way.
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