He got up brusquely. Her skin prickled. He growled in his throat and, thrusting his coat open, revealed his own buckled sword-belt. Ruth obeyed, not willingly, but because there was something hypnotic in the authoritative tone. “And even then—” The conversation hung for a thoughtful moment. She was perfectly aware that the boy had gotten some sort of bug in his craw over her despite her sloppy, strange appearance. "Mr. Are you going to write a novel?” “Not I,” she answered gaily. " "Ay, and there's my liver. Figg, the noted prize-fighter, from the New Amphitheatre in Marylebone Fields. James Figg was the most perfect master of self-defence of his day. When she confessed all this to her charge, telling the now grown up babe that there was no hope in the world of establishing any claim, she very soon discovered her mistake.
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