‘He’d have been that happy if he’d known how you’re the spit of her, miss. James Figg was the most perfect master of self-defence of his day. Her complexion was wan and faded, except where it was tinged by a slight hectic flush, that made the want of colour more palpable; her eyes were large and black, but heavy and lustreless; her cheeks sunken; her frame emaciated; her dark hair thickly scattered with gray.
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