" Figg turned aside to hide the tears that started to his eyes,—for the stout prizefighter, with a man's courage, had a woman's heart,—and the procession again set forward. Forgetting her occupation in her anger, she left off bathing Darrell's wrist; and, squeezing his arm so tightly that the boy winced with pain, she clapped her right hand upon her hip, and turned, with flashing eyes and an inflamed countenance, towards her crest-fallen spouse. ‘Shocked you, have I? We weren’t mealy-mouthed in my day, my boy. I believe so because the 220 stories say his head was cut off by a tribe of witches and yet it still remained alive for many years after his decapitation. “What you have said is a ridiculous falsehood,” she declared scornfully. The wedding day came shortly after she turned fourteen.
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