She saw his finger pull back on the hammer of the gun and shrieked a warning just as Jack launched himself forward and Gosse turned and fired. 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. It was a gray day in the spring of 1910. Her clock had stopped—stopped at the very hour on which she had quitted the Mint! She had not the heart to wind it up again. "Do not endanger yourself on my account," rejoined his mother. She slipped into bed and struggled to stay awake until she heard Cathy and Larry 14 stirring.
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