He beheld a tall gaunt man, his brown face corrugated like a winter's road, grim, stony. ” She drove off in a little fiacre, nodding and smiling at Sir John, who remained upon the Avenue. A victim of one of those mental typhoons that scatter irretrievably the barriers of instinct and breeding; and he had gone on the rocks all in a moment. May I come home and try to be a better daughter to you? “ANN VERONICA. 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.
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