‘Monsieur Charvill thought perhaps that his daughter would find not a welcome. He believes that he is leaving this conscience behind; and I want to watch his disillusion on this particular point. 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. Her secret thoughts made some hasty, half-hearted excursions into the possibility of telling the thing in romantic tones—Ramage was as a black villain, she as a white, fantastically white, maiden. Her teeth were chattering so hard that she had to clench them for fear of biting off her own tongue.
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