"Is this Misther Wudd's, my pretty miss?" demanded the rough voice of the Irish watchman. 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. Just as they reached the end of the passage, they heard the voices of Jonathan and the Jew in Thames's late place of confinement. .
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