" "Poor Jack!" sighed Thames. Fascination. "No, I won't leave go!" screamed Mrs. “I’d never have a day of peace again, John. I have plenty in common with Mike. “You are the Sir John Ferringhall who has bought the Lyndmore estate, are you not?” she remarked. Hearing the noise of the scuffle, the tapstress, fancying it was Jack making an effort to escape, in spite of the remonstrances of the executioner, threw open the wicket. 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.
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