Figg, the noted prize-fighter, from the New Amphitheatre in Marylebone Fields. She could not be more than twenty; and though want and other suffering had done the work of time, had wasted her frame, and robbed her cheek of its bloom and roundness, they had not extinguished the lustre of her eyes, nor thinned her raven hair. “Is that so? Who says?” He demanded, his eyebrows arching as he looked at her with puerile glee. The events that had initially followed in the wake of her triumph over Emile Gosse had quite confused and dazed her.
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