She was vaguely happy over this arrangement which put her in the wing across the middle hall, alone. Lucy clutched the pencil in defeat. The sound of their strident voices floated upwards, the high nasal note of the predominant Americans, the shrill laughter of girls quick to appreciate the wit of such of their male companions as thought it worth while to be amusing. 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. “Guess who I’m going out with?” Michelle asked her one day at lunch.
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