He breathed heavily, as though he had been running. Or he would find something—a wave in her hair, a little line in the contour of her brow or neck, that made an exquisite discovery. “All right so far,” she said to herself. 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 rolled to one side. He had brought the shrubs down from Syria, and, strangely enough, they had prospered. If you knew your aunt were alive, if she expected you, that would be different.
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