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. "We shall all be murdered. I didn't expect you home before that hour, Sir. ’ ‘Who, Joan, who? Of whom do you speak?’ ‘Mrs Sindlesham. Ann Veronica readjusted her chin on her hand. She looked round wildly, as if seeking some source of help, as the boots halted at the front door and the shouting intensified. Ten thousand steeds appeared to be trampling aloft, charged with the work of devastation.
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