" "Not at fisticuffs, perhaps," interrupted Jack, fiercely; "but I've my knife. “We are only in the dawn of the Age of Friendship,” he said, “when interest, I suppose, will take the place of passions. Was he planning on spending more time with her once in the country? The streets choked with beggars and the dying. I thought it better not to send him away till I'd mentioned the circumstance to you. He had meant to be master of his fate that evening and it had escaped him altogether. 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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