Seeing the footman about to follow her in, Gerald clamped a hand onto his shoulder. ‘Why did you kiss me?’ ‘I don’t know,’ Gerald admitted. 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. His quiet, kindly smile implied his serene disbelief in any confessible thing. I am going to ask him to finish it.
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