The house had in fact been converted into a convent, but the fact could not be advertised, not even in the Catholic enclave that existed in this part of town. “MY DEAR VERONICA,—Your aunt tells me you have involved yourself in some arrangement with the Widgett girls about a Fancy Dress Ball in London. She propped a pillow against his padded headboard and sat herself into a stiff upright position, legs expertly crossed. “It is a night of endings,” she murmured to herself. 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. "How old are you?" demanded Miss Prudence. His legs were dreadfully swelled; his hands bruised; and his fetters occasioned him intolerable pain. ’ ‘What?’ ‘Neat little toy. Double-crossing wouldn't do any good.
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