James Figg was the most perfect master of self-defence of his day. He wasn't satisfied with an assured income from the paper-mills your grandfather left us. But—he was cleverer than any of you. The room was papered with green, large-patterned paper that was at worst a trifle dingy, and the arm-chair and the seats of the other chairs were covered with the unusual brightness of a large-patterned chintz, which also supplied the window-curtain. "Keep off, you accursed jade!" roared Jonathan, "—off, I say, or—" And he struck her a violent blow with his clenched hand. When she awoke, she felt sick, her mouth still salty with blood.
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