‘You wish a reason for jealousy? Eh bien, you may have it. I tell you—never mind the bill. He'll be here two or three days. He went to Harvard instead. That's a queer yarn. I am almost old enough to be your father. He would have to sit down here in Canton and wait, perhaps for weeks. We shall have—hardly any 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. All through the love music of the second act, until the hunting horns of Mark break in upon the dream, Ann Veronica’s consciousness was flooded with the perception of a man close beside her, preparing some new thing to say to her, preparing, perhaps, to touch her, stretching hungry invisible tentacles about her.
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