He seated himself before it. “And all the rest of it perhaps is a song. 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. Her little bedsitting-room was like a lair, and she went out from it into this vast, dun world, with its smoke-gray houses, its glaring streets of shops, its dark streets of homes, its orange-lit windows, under skies of dull copper or muddy gray or black, much as an animal goes out to seek food. But if she smiled at all it was with her eyes. "That's a glorious reward. "Rot, weren't they?" "No. "Ah!" he exclaimed, as the painting was turned towards him.
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