“I mean to go to that dance!” she blubbered. 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. She wondered if he was already tired of her, if he would rudely push her away as one would a prostitute. He unlocked himself from her embrace. "Aye—to pretend to her that you don't care.
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