It was as if she had grown right past her father into something older and of infinitely wider outlook, as if he had always been unsuspectedly a flattened figure, and now she had discovered him from the other side. 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. “Fearful old fogey! I can’t imagine any sister of yours putting up with him for a moment. You won’t settle and I’m going mad. I could be presented as Meysey Hill. I have slept with it under my pillow. The thought caused him an odd kind of pang—of pity, naturally. Muttering something to himself, he appeared to be telling upon his fingers the advantages and disadvantages of some scheme he had in contemplation. I overlooked the mechanical imperfections of your work, the utter lack of finish, the crudeness of your drawing. Ennison,” she exclaimed, “is that really you?” There was no sign of embarrassment in her manner.
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