It is foolish, she murmured to herself, foolish. 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. She knew now that he never would. From a bi-secting street came shouting and music. One of the sampans was hailed, and a ropeladder was lowered. “Miss Pellissier,” he said, “don’t!” “Why not?” she asked, smiling. Look at me, and answer me one question. ‘Do you know, Mademoiselle Charvill, you are a thought too clever for your own good. Earles.
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