He kissed her deeply and hungrily. He called to the other attendant, who held the torch. If it wasn’t for the fear that after all—but we won’t think of that. His back was no sooner turned, than she slipped this casket into the box. “You were born for great things,” he said huskily. The doorbell tinkled and Michelle grabbed her purse and rushed down the creaky wooden stairs. 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.
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