Next morning, Miss Scatcherd wrote in conspicuous characters on a piece of pasteboard the word "Slattern," and bound it like a phylactery round Helen’s large, mild, intelligent, and benign— looking forehead.
Nature seemed to me benign and good; I thought she loved me, outcast as I was; and I, who from man could anticipate only mistrust, rejection, insult, clung to her with filial fondness.
There are no more uses of "benign" in the book.
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She predicts benign economic conditions through next year.
She said she has the power to crush me, but is benign by nature and so will not harm me unless I make trouble.