"Why not?" "I'll tell you," cried a deep voice from the back of the bed. "If so, it won't pay. It never has had. You are going to be generous and forgive. But this is like—like walking round a house that looks square and complete and finding an unexpected long wing running out behind. 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 was a gorgeous May evening, the air redolent with the soapy purple scents of hyacinth and lilac.
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