The stranger turned his head at the sound. “I have always,” she admitted calmly, “taken a certain amount of interest in Annabel’s future. Keep up the clamour for five minutes, and I'll finish it. Wood's anxiety grew so insupportable, that he seized his hat with the intention of sallying forth in search of them, though he did not know whither to bend his steps, when his departure was arrested by a gentle knock at the door. “That,” she answered, “is far easier to believe. I'll forgive him if he does. 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. D'ye hear.
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