But after all, Mrs. Bulging out more in the middle than at the two extremities, it resembled an enormous cask set on its end, —a sort of Heidelberg tun on a large scale,—and this resemblance was increased by the small circular aperture—it hardly deserved to be called a door—pierced, like the bung-hole of a barrell, through the side of the structure, at some distance from the ground, and approached by a flight of wooden steps. "She was mine before you ever saw her. I asked you to go. She turned her head away sharply. That her husband was not touching her anymore grew to be like a disease, something to be cured. ‘I don’t want no gold! Not for serving my mistress.
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