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. “My chief,” he said, “took it into his head to have an impromptu dinner party. “Intolerable idiots!. She almost laughed, but repressed her smile lest it seem cruel. Here we go, thought Gerald. Though there is something to be said for your idea of a secret convent, at least as a hiding place.
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