The poet's appearance altogether was highly prepossessing. He believes that he is leaving this conscience behind; and I want to watch his disillusion on this particular point. 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. ‘Wait a minute, though. You know, Melusine. When I've escorted you proud fool to his new quarters, I'll proceed to the Mint and look after Jack Sheppard. His face fell. He must have married when he was quite a young man. There is a tragedy to come. Jack instantly sprang to his feet, and as his guards construed the motion into an attempt to escape, several of them drew their swords and motioned to him to sit down.
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