207 She romanced a dark-haired farmer a few times, having long since forgotten his name. “I wonder,” she murmured to herself, “if this is the beginning. "Adorable girl!" he cried, in the most impassioned tone, and with the most impassioned look he could command. She got home every night in time to cook supper and it was good money. 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. Whatever she does is minimized. Her head ached with a hollow pain. ‘I am far from imagining anything of the kind.
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