“You are the type that I want to marry someday, you’ve got a beautiful body, such pretty eyes. \" Lucy replied meekly. Fortescue, with a bow. ’ She was silent for a space, and it was evident that this part of the story was still too painful to be recalled with ease. 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.
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