There were moments when Ann Veronica rather more than suspected the chief speakers to be, as school-boys say, showing off at her. I doubt I hold any interest for him anymore. He subjected me there to great annoyance by claiming me as his wife. “Confound sex from first to last!” said Ann Veronica. But, taking the chisel from Blueskin, Jack quickly forced back the bolt. “A claim,” he continued, “which I am quite prepared to recognize. Perhaps what urged her interest in the young man's direction was the dead whiteness of his face, the puffed eyelids and the bloodshot whites. 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. At last—I told a story.
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