” The note of his own voice exasperated him. 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. Murder had become nothing to her. Sheppard, passing her hand across her brow; "but my memory is gone—quite gone. I think you’re wrong. The fanatic has no such word in his vocabulary. “Do you know,” she confessed, “I never thought of that?” He looked at her as though doubting even now whether she could possibly be in earnest. That was the only sound he heard.
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