I tried. Lucy had passed the house once on the sidewalk, on a rare day when he was shoveling snow. “Dear old daddy!” she said, and was amazed to find herself shedding tears. Will you take it in to him?” The young man smiled in a superior manner. He stood still, almost breathless. 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. ’ ‘Fiddle,’ scoffed Miss Froxfield.
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