She looked at him as he thrust deeply, his face contorted with pleasure as he watched her riding him. 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. There was little fighting spirit here. Clotilde rushed out of the house, carrying her boy and tugging her girl by the ear.
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