I fancy that Sir John does not approve of me. ’ His head came thrusting out at Melusine like a belligerent tortoise from its shell. 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. It was no wonder, there was no money to buy food for the house.
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