I've watched this lad—this Sheppard—from infancy; and, though I have apparently concerned myself little about him, I have never lost sight of my purpose. 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. I took the usual way home. But he could only utter an inarticulate exclamation. “And children must we women bear— “Oh, damn!” she cried, as the hundred-and-first couplet or so presented itself in her unwilling brain. It was easy to recognize, the one thing that had stayed the same over the years. It was the grand nursery of vice. “Yes?” “You remember once, how we talked—at a gate on the Downs? We talked about how a girl might get an independent living. We never started out in any high-browed manner to scandalize and Shelleyfy.
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