He was a young man of about two-and-twenty, who, without having anything remarkable either in dress or appearance, was yet a noticeable person, if only for the indescribable expression of cunning pervading his countenance. He had quite enough to see to and worry about in the City without their doing things. Figg, the noted prize-fighter, from the New Amphitheatre in Marylebone Fields. “It was a bad day for me,” he said, speaking slowly and painfully.
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