She did not enter the cabin at once, but paused on the threshold and stared at the silent, recumbent figure in the bunk. “I cannot part with you. She had killed him. A woman cannot change her soul. “My dear Anna,” he answered. 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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