Figg, the noted prize-fighter, from the New Amphitheatre in Marylebone Fields. He did not so much cut into this conversation as loom over it, for he was a tall, if rather studiously stooping, man. “Now,” he said, “no one can blunder in upon us. If ever the denouement came—if ever the Hand reached him—Ruth would then understand why he had rebuffed all her tender advances. Melusine approached with caution and sat warily at one end, looking up at him expectantly.
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