He sent me flowers. Figg, the noted prize-fighter, from the New Amphitheatre in Marylebone Fields. So perfect was the illusion, that he could almost fancy he heard the solemn voice of the ordinary warning him that his race was nearly run, and imploring him to prepare for eternity. "Your mother is dead," interposed Wild, scowling. Apologizing for their detention, he answered the questions put to him respecting the boys, by positively denying that any such prisoners had been entrusted to his charge, but offered to conduct him to every cell in the building to prove the truth of his assertion. "You're wanted.
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