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. He could think about it later. “The one who used to live at Lyndmore. But it’s love you should’ve had when you were tiny and I didn’t give it to you. Luckily, she was bereft of consciousness, and was thus spared the additional misery of witnessing what afterwards befell him. He was reaching wearily for some kind of buffer to his harrying conscience.
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