Stay me with flagons, comfort me with apples, for I am sick of love. 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. “Queer letters he writes,” she said. In fact, it had been anciently the right hand postern under the gate leading towards the city. “The real reason why I am out of place here,” she said, “is because I like men.
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