“I knew you would feel it,” said Miss Miniver, as they came away flushed and heated. (“No, no. She would be enduing this chap with attributes he did not possess, clothing him in fictional ruffles. If I don't, you shall clap me in the Condemned Hold in his stead. John picked it up and put it in her hands. 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.
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