You know you don’t mean it. For a time she could scarcely believe he was gone. Hetty, who had periods of lucid expression, put the thing for her from her pillow. Her sister’s words were true. 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. His was the Latin turn of thinking; he had fallen in love at thirteen, and he was still capable—he prided himself—of falling in love. She was given a glimpse of his soul. ’ ‘Pottiswick, you mean, miss?’ ‘Yes, yes. “Too late, my dear girl,” she exclaimed.
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