Wood's dwelling,—a plain, substantial, commodious farm-house. His face was aquiline but sweet, the years had not yet taken the blush from his cheeks and his lips were similarly rubefacient. So I come suppliant. The world had not passed by but had gone around it in a tremendous half-circle. He was standing by, rating her ladyship,—who can scarcely stir from the sofa,—while I was packing up her jewels in the case, and I observed that she tried to hide a small casket from him. This formidable person, who was no other than the renowned Figg, the "Atlas of the sword," as he is termed by Captain Godfrey, had removed his hat and "skull covering," and was wiping the heat from his bepatched and closeshaven pate.
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