The young man's imagination suddenly pictured the man as a rock, loosed from its ancient bed, crumbling as it fell. ’ To be sure there was a way. "Your sister is dead," said he, in a deep whisper. The evening breeze came; the bamboo shades on the veranda clicked and rasped; the loose edges of the manuscript curled. For every Eden, there will be a serpent; for every sheepfold, there will be a wolf. 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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