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. She looked stealthily at Anna. "Come with me, my love, come—come," cried his mother, seizing his hand, and endeavouring to force him away.
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