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. Jack tried it, and found it locked. She returned home through a world that was as roseate as it had been gray overnight. CHAPTER XXII Every morning at dawn it was Spurlock's custom to take a plunge in the lagoon. His stories had enchanted her, even if in some deep corner of her heart she guessed they were not entirely true. This was no night for the indulgence of dreamy musing. On the one hand, she seemed to think plainly and simply, and would talk serenely and freely about topics that most women have been trained either to avoid or conceal; and on the other she was unconscious, or else she had an air of being unconscious—that was the riddle—to all sorts of personal applications that almost any girl or woman, one might have thought, would have made. .
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