You made that thing?” “From a kit. " Thames was about to follow, when he felt a gentle grasp upon his arm. His face was a little flushed perhaps, and his small, brown eyes were bright. 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. "You don't recollect me, I presume?" premised the stranger, taking a seat.
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