Her patience was waning fast. She had a feeling at his departure as of an immense cavity, of something enormously gone; she could not tell whether it was infinite regret or infinite relief. 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. "I've lost my wager. It was enough that she witnessed it and could not go to him. The next page was a drawing that she had made in pen and ink of his face, or what she had remembered of it. ” He smiled at her. ” “He is certainly alive,” Anna declared.
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