He stood upon the threshold, dangling his eye-glasses in his fingers, stolid, imperturbable, mildly interrogative. She parted the curtains to find him standing there. ’ ‘It is you who is absurd,’ countered Melusine, the spark returning to her eye. Danger, in the form he apprehended, was lurking outside: nor was he destined to enjoy long repose. ” “You all seem to be trying to pull my leg,” Sir John remarked quietly. 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.
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