“How dared you do yourself this injustice?” “I did it for her sake,” she answered. Marvel was almost dislodged from his seat on the coffin by a dead dog, which was hurled against him, and struck him in the face. 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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