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. Accordingly, he proceeded to a gate which stood upon the south, and guarded the passage communicating with the leads. The fates are never so kind to me. I don't believe he is much past forty. Her family are solid West End people, Kensington people. " "Poor soul!—poor soul!" groaned Wood, brushing the tears from his vision. ‘But it is idiot.
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