She was trembling a little. "Won't you sit down?" "I beg your pardon! Come into the consultation office"; and the doctor led the way. ‘Very well, mademoiselle, so be it,’ he snapped. Gosse had moved forward, his pistol arm out straight, his aim true, the gun cocked. Entering the house, he found himself in a narrow passage leading to the back stairs. 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. She interrupted. She guessed that he probably slept all of three hours a night at most. Slowly she released the hammer on the pistol, uncocking it, and Gerald became conscious that he had been holding his breath. Then she glanced at the cards again, over which her aunt’s many-ringed hand played, and then at the rather weak, rather plump face that surveyed its operations.
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