"Lor' ha' mussy, Sir!—how you do talk," said the woman; "this is no robber, I'm sure. If this is the young lady, she can perhaps calm him. " "Oh!" exclaimed the widow, covering her face with her hands. 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. \"Where are you going?\" She cried. Wild on his guard against an assassin. They sat down, McClintock reaching for a lump of sugar which he began munching.
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