” “What?” “That’s the devil of it!” “Devil of what?. 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 opened it and imbibed. "What poet was that?" "Stevenson. ’ ‘She?’ scoffed Martha. ’ ‘It’s immaterial, in any event,’ Roding put in. "I feel like work," he lied.
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