” He looked into her pale blue eyes. Things you would laugh at. "If I thought he lived——" observed Wood. Lucy felt her eyes misting up, turning traitor. ” “It is Number 8, Cavendish Square,” she answered simply. " As he spoke, the door of the round-house was opened, and a stout man, with a lantern in his hand, presented himself at the threshold. The above description of —the great Figg, by the prize-fighting swains Sole monarch acknowledged of Mary'bone plains— may sound somewhat tame by the side of the glowing account given of him by his gallant biographer, who asserts that "there was a majesty shone in his countenance, and blazed in his actions, beyond all I ever saw;" but it may, possibly, convey a more accurate notion of his personal appearance.
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