He was perched on the very edge of the leather seat of the coach, his threecornered hat twisting nervously in his hands, and from time to time he passed a tongue over dry lips. A small voice greeted her, hissing. Sheppard, vainly trying to discover a gleam of compassion in the thief-taker's inexorable countenance,—"Mercy! mercy!" "Pshaw!" rejoined Jonathan. “How did you hear that?” Lucy’s brows knitted. The small grey feathers of her exquisitely shaped fan waved gently backwards and forwards. Dim souls flitted about her, not only speaking but it would seem even thinking in undertones. She was dressed in a tattered black stuff gown, discoloured by various stains, and intended, it would seem, from the remnants of rusty crape with which it was here and there tricked out, to represent the garb of widowhood, and held in her arms a sleeping infant, swathed in the folds of a linsey-woolsey shawl. ’ ‘Indeed, I’m beginning to think so,’ he said ruefully. Langley is getting up, and coming this way. There is no other way. 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. He spoke only when he saw the sing-song girl he wanted to buy.
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