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. "You've ruined my hopes. ” 209 Clotilde was no fool. " "Ah! you're so very particular," sighed Mrs. “I will do whatever you want,” said Ann Veronica. Yet in some hidden corner was a vein of sentiment, of which for the first time in his later life he was now unexpectedly aware. Then he stood up and repeated it again. He's got the gift of the gab.
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