Tell me a story—with apple-blossoms in it—about people who are happy. “I guess I’m not the only one who wonders about your past. ‘What, miss?’ asked Jack Kimble from behind her. He doesn't resemble you at all. He had a quick, shrewd, merry eye, and a look in which duplicity was agreeably veiled by good humour. 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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