He urged his conductors to a quicker pace to get out of sight of the distressing spectacle, and even felt relieved when he was shut out from it and the execrations of the mob by the walls of the little prison. “You might at least,” she murmured, “have invented a more romantic reason. ‘No. He had now reached the adjoining house, and, scaling the roof, approached another building, which seemed to be, at least, one story loftier than its neighbours. "That's for Winifred," vociferated the Amazon, bringing the cudgel heavily upon his shoulder. James Figg was the most perfect master of self-defence of his day.
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