E. ToC Nearly nine years after the events last recorded, and about the middle of May, 1724, a young man of remarkably prepossessing appearance took his way, one afternoon, along Wych Street; and, from the curiosity with which he regarded the houses on the left of the road, seemed to be in search of some particular habitation. “How could he call except in your absence, as you are never at home in the afternoon. It comforts him when he is most forlorn. The boy she had loved was gone. 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. “Don’t they look like a pair of young lovers sleeping off a tryst?” He observed. “Why should one pretend?” she whispered. Blood, they say, won't come out. The window was shortly after opened, and a rope ladder, with a lighted horn lantern attached to it, let down.
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