I didn't understand then, but I do now. ‘I’ll play you at your own game,’ he growled, holding the foreshortened foil in place with rigid control. There was a certain air of forced fortuity in his manner. And all to satisfy a succession of rapacious lightskirts. 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 pushed. A new inexplicable madness that urged him to shrill ironically the story of his coat—to take it off and fling it at the feet of any stranger who chanced to be nigh. " "No doubt," he replied.
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