“It isn’t fair. ’ The core of hurt rose up, tearing at her insides. She ought to be softened and tender and confidential at this phase of her life. She wanted to think. 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. For just as though a vague likeness is sometimes borne swiftly in upon one, so a vague dissimilarity between the face on the poster and the heroine of his thoughts had slowly crept into his consciousness. ‘Don’t be so absurd. " The doctor ran his fingers through his hair, despairingly. " "As like as life, Sir," observed Austin, peeping over Thornhill's shoulder at the portrait. In this moment he could have stamped upon the Wastrel's face, and ended the affair; but all that was clean in him, chivalrous, revolted at the thought. " Gently she thrust Ruth aside. “It is true.
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