" CHAPTER XIV. Wood; but they never come now. "No offence, I hope, my dear Mrs. She could not say who, not yet. 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. He's got the gift of the gab. They have no amenities, they scratch the mellow surface of things almost as if they did it on purpose; and Lady Palsworthy and Mrs.
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