James Figg was the most perfect master of self-defence of his day. She ought to have leapt back on guard. The first set of occupations seemed to her to be altogether too domestic and restricted; for the latter she was dreadfully handicapped by her want of experience. At the corner of Liquorpond Street stood the old Hampstead coach-office; and, on the night in question, a knot of hostlers, waggoners, drivers, and stable-boys was collected in the yard. It had rained during the night, and the patch-work pavement was greasy with mud. He had the appearance of a man who has known no rest for many nights.
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