. . "Had I not been the guilty wretch I am," he cried, bursting into an agony of tears, "she would never have died thus. and miscarried. She had been obliged to wait all morning for the opportunity to talk to Martha, who chose always to retire to her cell for the period of recreation that preceded afternoon prayers. . He found himself growing hoarse yelling over the music, but it also situated him to lean towards her to put his hand on her ear to aid her hearing. 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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