Winifred's features would have been pretty, for they were regular and delicately formed, if they had not been slightly marked by the small-pox;—a disorder, that sometimes spares more than it destroys, and imparts an expression to be sought for in vain in the smoothest complexion. She was not quite clear how she should find it, but she felt she would. "What's all this?" exclaimed Wood in amazement. This time he couldn't get far. I’ve a dread of love dropping its petals, becoming mean and ugly.
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