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The storm burst upon them in its fury. 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. They might applaud, or object, or interfere, but the drama was her very own. Yes, yes, you do not like the French, and so this English lady here, she is altogether your flesh.
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