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. Cowering in a corner upon a heap of straw sat his unfortunate mother, the complete wreck of what she had been. "No!" she cried. Would you tell her … now?" his eyes flaming with mockery. Sadly, the Christmas break came to an end. " He approached the bed and laid his palm on the patient's forehead, and nodded. But he was now too deeply moved to trace a certain unsatisfactoriness to its source in a mixture of metaphors. She reloaded.
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