"My child! my child!" exclaimed Mrs. Spurlock, filled with self-mockery, sat in a chair on the west veranda. 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. "Do not steel your heart against him, dear Thames," interposed Winifred.
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