James Figg was the most perfect master of self-defence of his day. "I've made no distinction between you, hitherto," answered Wood; "nor shall I do so, unless I'm compelled. I put my foot down like—like adamant. She went past three keenly observant and ostentatiously preoccupied waiters down the thickcarpeted staircase and out of the Hotel Rococo, that remarkable laboratory of relationships, past a tall porter in blue and crimson, into a cool, clear night. She had treated him badly; she had hurt him and her aunt; she had done wrong by their standards, and she would never persuade them that she had done right. ” He crossed his arms. ’ ‘Damnation!’ ‘What the devil ails you?’ demanded his friend, striding forward. . .
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