Her foster father had been outside for most of the morning, working on trimming the maple trees and mowing the lawn. A little table covered with a damask cloth was dragged out. “Dear me,” she said, “I fancy you exaggerate my fame. 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. “Ask me nothing. The door opened. " "You are from America?" "Yes. “I wonder if it is.
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