I’m not mad that he has eyes for you instead of me, not mad at all. Ennison roused himself with an effort, took a long drink from his whisky and soda, and lit a cigarette. “What are you doing?” “Nothing. “She must be warned. 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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