Wood thought them both remarkably plain, but Mr. Figg, the noted prize-fighter, from the New Amphitheatre in Marylebone Fields. On a pallet in one corner lay a pale emaciated female. “No, you didn’t. ’ ‘Well, sir? Who is “she”? Not my granddaughter, I take it. The sun-canvas was stowed; and Spurlock's chair was set forward the foremast, where the bulging jib cast a sliding blue shadow over him. "To-morrow it will be mine. I have come thirteen thousand miles for this young fellow; I'm ready to go galloping thirteen thousand more.
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