A face without freckles is like a night without stars.

I want to get to know every freckle and every curve on a personal level.”

“I think you did that last night.”

“Nah.” He shook his head. “That was just a meet and greet. I want to know their hopes and dreams.

My imperfections make me less mournable.

Every human being must be viewed according to what it is good for. For not one of us, no, not one, is perfect. And were we to love none who had imperfection, this world would be a desert for our love.

As they climbed it, the various Healers called out to them, diagnosing odd complaints and suggesting horrible remedies. Ron was seriously affronted when a medieval wizard called out that he clearly had a bad case of spattergroit.
“And what’s that supposed to be?” he asked angrily, as the Healer pursued him through six more portraits, shoving the occupants out of the way.
“ ’Tis a most grievous affliction of the skin, young master, that will leave you pockmarked and more gruesome even than you are now —”
“Watch who you’re calling gruesome!” said Ron, his ears turning red.
“The only remedy is to take the liver of a toad, bind it tight about your throat, stand naked by the full moon in a barrel of eels’ eyes —”
“I have not got spattergroit!”
“But the unsightly blemishes upon your visage, young master —”
“They’re freckles!” said Ron furiously.

Had she been born 500 years sooner, Raphael would have chosen her as a model for his cherubs. Tendrils of bright red hair framed her face, a spray of freckles powdered her nose, and she was as plump as a perfectly ripened peach. Raphael probably would have painted out the freckles, and that would have been a mistake. Like brushing cinnamon off cinnamon toast.