We must wave our hands at the blue hills far away there and go back to London and work. 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. By his side sat a remarkably stout dame, to whom he paid as much attention as it was in his iron nature to pay. He stared at her breasts while he touched them. "I understand," she said. I’m off to England. I had to sell out, you see, when my father died, for the estate is in my hands. I’ll be waiting for you outside. He regretted— more deeply than he could say—the occurrence of this evening. I pity her from the bottom of my heart.
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