" "My courage gave out. ’ The pathetic sob which accompanied the last word had a signal effect on two of the company at least. 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 killed every month, twelve a year, and was for all intents and purposes a serial killer of middle aged men. . I don’t think I’ve got illusions, nor you.
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