She leaned back in her chair. “Lady Ferringhall, sir. “I feel shabby and disgraced. "Impossible!" exclaimed the widow, wildly. Adieu!" And, snatching a hasty kiss, he darted after Jack. By and by she heard the screen door. 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. Nor was he long in making it available.
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