For a time it really seemed all-sufficient to her that she should love. 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. He hadn't gambled or played the horses or hit the booze back there in little old New York…. He was almost paralyzed with nervousness and desire. Ruth took hers in the sea, but was careful never to go beyond her depth because of the sharks. No hair to fall awry, no powder to displace, no ruffles to crush; men are lucky. Stop it.
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