“Did you—did you really think that they would take you for a Frenchman?” she exclaimed. The tears were streaming down her face, her voice was thick with sobs. He shrugged and, to Gerald’s relief, made to leave at last. She took up one of her father’s novels and put it down again, fretted up to her own room for some work, sat on her bed and meditated upon the room that she was now really abandoning forever, and returned at length with a stocking to darn. She met him by the dugout after the game. It seemed to him that speech would be an anticlimax. 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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