“You can count upon me, Nigel,” she said. It seemed to her at this moment that there was nothing left for her to do. He drew her away from this thought. 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. ‘Well she does,’ insisted Miss Froxfield impenitently, and turned to Gerald. “Never was such an age of transition. To-night all this may seem hard and cruel. Bah! She does not know me very well, and you—not at all.
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