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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. Winds returned, the gardens withered, and roses would not bloom. For a big-bellied glass is the palette I use, And the choicest of wine is my colour; And I find that my nose takes the mellowest hues The fuller I fill it—the fuller! IV. But indeed that is not at all a good description of her attitude. Ann Veronica hesitated with a question that had leaped up in her mind, and that she felt was cruel. " "Your esteem is all he will require," urged Winifred.
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