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. Wood underwent this examination, Blueskin felt a small and trembling hand placed upon his own, and, turning at the summons, beheld a young female, whose features were partially concealed by a loo, or half mask, standing beside him. It wasn’t so much women as Woman that engaged his mind. Twenty guineas, mind. “I cannot reason with you,” he said at last wearily. Upon this young fellow's face there were no wrinkles, only shadows, in the hollows of the cheeks and under the eyes. Yet you catch her eye—you can’t seem to escape from it.
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