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. With the immediate necessities in train, Melusine fell to brooding on her situation, which she found insupportable. "You hay'n't hurt your arm, I trust, my dear?" he added, anxiously. Upon this young fellow's face there were no wrinkles, only shadows, in the hollows of the cheeks and under the eyes. . To her chagrin, he ignored her, and turned a venomous eye on his betrothed. We are alone, Sir Rowland," he added, snuffing the candles, glancing cautiously around, and lowering his tone, "and what you confide to me shall never transpire,—at least to your disadvantage. What had happened to it? She had broken it, certainly. The young ladies in the somewhat mixed society amongst which he moved neither satisfied his taste nor appealed in any way to his affections.
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