H’m. Figg, the noted prize-fighter, from the New Amphitheatre in Marylebone Fields. Maggot, laughing. Smith had never seen anything like it. He seemed to deliberate. That world of fine printed cambrics and escorted maidens, of delicate secondary meanings and refined allusiveness, presented itself to her imagination with the brightness of a lost paradise, as indeed for many women it is a lost paradise.
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