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. I’ve to collect my sword and hat, and then we must get back to London. Now I have done something for which you might be pardoned if you did kill me. The picture might easily apply to The Tigress: outwardly disreputable, but richly and comfortably appointed below. II. But you! Why the devil did you marry her? That's the thing that confounds me. CHAPTER XI. "Tell me frankly, and speak under your breath. Come up stairs, and take a glass of brandy.
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