And, as he was about to put himself into a posture of defence, his mother clasped him in her arms. For a few minutes, she appeared scarcely sensible of his presence. 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. "Out of a family album, you said," Angelina reminded her sister. He “went in” for microscopy in the unphilosophical Victorian manner as his “hobby. She paused for a moment.
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