"It can't be Captain Sheppard!" "It is," replied Jack; "and you had better have met the devil on your road than me. He took her hand in his, raising it closer, and gently touched the maltreated skin. I would not have him know—now—for the world. 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—in connection with this man Hill. ’ Gerald’s eyes never left the girl. How fortunate that she recognises the resemblance.
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