“You can count upon me, Nigel,” she said. This is retribution. White became conscious of a distinct sense of uneasiness, and showed it in her face. The small grey feathers of her exquisitely shaped fan waved gently backwards and forwards. 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. Sit down, I command you.
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