"Enough," said Jack, recovering his composure. I’ve got to run to get to my Study Hall. 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. Supposing you fetch what you can, and if you will allow me, I will see you off. You know not what a wretched guilty thing I am.
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