" 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. ‘Let her go. Some one had once, in his hearing, called him a prig. It’s kind of the World War II thing. " The mortal agony behind those eyes! And all the while he had probably loved his child. He was walking listlessly along, well-dressed, debonnair, good-looking. ‘I am not in the least in a rage. "Bless your soul! d'ye think I'm to be gammoned by such nonsense. One never knew when it would be necessary to resume her disguise. And yet the moment I am safely out of the way you are content to dress yourself in my rags, to go and get yourself popular and admired and successful, all on my reputation.
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