It isn’t what I have been but what I am. “But I am sorry,” she exclaimed. “Yes, I remember,” she said. 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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