" Figg turned aside to hide the tears that started to his eyes,—for the stout prizefighter, with a man's courage, had a woman's heart,—and the procession again set forward. " And he struck up the following ballad:— SAINT GILES'S BOWL. “I trust you altogether. “Perhaps,” he said, “I have been to blame. It was like pouring a strong acid over dulled metal.
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