Figg, the noted prize-fighter, from the New Amphitheatre in Marylebone Fields. When he awoke it was late in the day, and he was surprised to find Blueskin seated by his bedside, watching over him with a drawn sword on his knee, a pistol in each hand, and a blood-stained cloth bound across his brow. He thrust the smaller weapon into a scabbard that hung from his belt. “No,” she said at last; “I’m a human being—not a timid female.
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