Each time that we meet I try to kill you. Wood!—no," replied the turnkey. Look! Is that some one coming out?” The front door of the flats stood open, and through it a woman, slim and veiled, passed on to the pavement and turned with swift footsteps in the opposite direction. "My good friend, Owen Wood,—Heaven preserve him!—is still living. She took hand cannon and began to arm it. The watcher's intake of breath was sibilant. For a time he would be the grim Protestant Flagellant, pursuing the idea of self-castigation. 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. Be honest, and you will be happy.
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