There were doorways to peer into, dim cluttered holes with shadowy forms moving about, potters and rug-weavers. “I’d rather go as a chorus-girl,” she said. 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. One would say she could try to —to prevent that her daughter will go to the convent.
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