” She looked at him doubtfully. Her fingers rested upon his. Leave the room! leave the house, Sir! and enter it again at your peril. The booming voice and the energetic movements spoke plainly of hurry. 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. It wasn’t pretty. The dress of this person was excessively showy, and consisted of a scarlet riding-habit, lined and faced with blue, and bedizened with broad gold lace, a green silk-knit waistcoat, embroidered with silver, and decorated with a deep fringe, together with a hat tricked out in the same gaudy style. If our young person hadn’t had the nurse part cut out, eh? She might have known more and done less.
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