Wood, in his Sunday habiliments and Sunday buckle. He seemed to deliberate. ‘You are mad, if you think he will give you a sou. Why should she? she asked rebelliously. You complain of a condition, but you leave the correction to someone else. “You know,” he went on, “this doesn’t seem to me to end anything. He had been very easy or she had been very lucky. 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.
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