She thought me— filthy. "You forget that you promised me a kiss the last time you were here. ” Behind this woman and a little to the side of her, walked a man smartly dressed, with desire and appraisal in his eyes. 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. If you don't conquer this disgraceful propensity in time, you'll soon come to want; and then nothing can save you.
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