"Ah!" he exclaimed, as the painting was turned towards him. "God in Heaven!" he cried, "the floor is covered with blood. 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. But not a word to him of Lady Trafford's absence—mind that. “But your sister?” he asked. ’ She thrust him out of the room and made for the stairs. She is English! I am sure of that. His instinct was in the direction of considering his daughters his absolute property, bound to obey him, his to give away or his to keep to be a comfort in his declining years just as he thought fit.
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