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. “It was my sister Anna. She felt sleepy and unusually irritable. I simply warn you. “You know what? You’re right. An ugly flush stained his cheeks. The woollen-draper was no despicable trencherman in a general way; but his feats with the knife and fork were child's sport compared with those of Mr. White. So far she had the utmost difficulty in getting on to that vitally important matter. “Oh, Lucy. "Your father said so before you," replied Jonathan, malignantly; "and yet it has tarried thus long.
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