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"Well, gentlemen," rejoined Wood, mildly; "since Mr. He may not be able to eat tin-cans, but he tries to. I do not think you quite understand my ideals or what is becoming as between father and daughter. She turned the gas up in her little sitting-room, and sank wearily into an easy chair. Pull over there. 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. He leaned forward to better drink her in.
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