Such pretty manners, she thought. The well of tears in her eyes was dry. "I've done no more than my duty, Mrs. 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. “Miserable bounder,” he murmured.
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