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 was lovely, painted like the porcelain doll he had always wanted her to be. Next instant he had her immobilised, her hands behind her back, her chest crushed to his, the white veil slipping once again. So far the thing was acceptable enough.
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