’ Fury rippled again. You heard her. 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. Nobody ever called me John, that I recollect. He knew. The oaken beam, nine inches in thickness, was now the sole but most formidable obstacle to his flight. .
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