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That night a grave was dug in Willesden churchyard, next to that in which Mrs. 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. She slipped out the window, jumping to the ground from the second story with very little sound. "Release me instantly, or I will call my father. “Bad hemorrhage,” he said. One glance through the window at that picturesque head had been sufficient.
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