” “You do not deny that you are my wife,” he asked hoarsely. ” She said, studying his face, which seemed to lose its childishness a little more with each day. Lucy's ears were singing. It is better to face the truth. 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. He, a Chinaman, troubling himself over Occidental ideas! With his hands in his sleeves, he proceeded on his way.
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