“Stop!” He ran towards her. 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 did not remember how many seasons it took before she relented, how much time before she decided to toy with his affections. “About my sister,” she repeated slowly. “You are the Sir John Ferringhall who has bought the Lyndmore estate, are you not?” she remarked.
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