"A sail?" said McClintock. Give me the keys and the light. He carried her in his arms up the steps, like a bride on her honeymoon. 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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