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"Your mother is dead," interposed Wild, scowling. No further responsibility whatever. 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 stood 218 there, broken bottle still in hand. I do not want to get only a second-hand flavour of life.
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