“Why could you not confide in us?” “Do what?” said Ann Veronica. Wood, with a look meant to reduce her supposed rival to the dust. 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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