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. Jack's mouth was coarse and large; Darrell's small and exquisitely carved, with the short, proud upper lip, which belongs to the highest order of beauty. Lucy's ears were singing. The key's in the lock, on the inner side. ‘I should not dream of forcing my attentions on you. " "What a life!" "No worse than yours. “But what are you going to do?” asked Hetty. Fifteen from forty is twenty-five. Grasping one of chairs about the little table, he drew it forward and sat astride it, in a fashion as insolent as it was unexpected. END OF THE SECOND EPOCH.
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