’ ‘Yes, she duped me finely,’ agreed Gerald. How Jonathan Wild's House was burnt down. Almost at once she had comprehended that she was expected to write down her name and address, which she did, in slanting cobwebby lettering, perhaps a trifle laboriously. 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. But some day she would find a place to love: there would be rosy apples on the boughs, and there would be flurries of snow blowing into her face. "My coat!" he repeated, his glance burning into hers.
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