"I beg pardon," he said. The above description of —the great Figg, by the prize-fighting swains Sole monarch acknowledged of Mary'bone plains— may sound somewhat tame by the side of the glowing account given of him by his gallant biographer, who asserts that "there was a majesty shone in his countenance, and blazed in his actions, beyond all I ever saw;" but it may, possibly, convey a more accurate notion of his personal appearance. She saw marks in the dirt where he had been pacing. “I want to inquire,” said Ann Veronica. ‘Is he meeting you here then, my dear?’ ‘He had better,’ said Lucilla. " "My turn comes before yours, Sir," interposed his better half.
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