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. The gale had become a hurricane: that hurricane was the most terrible that ever laid waste our city. “Sit down,” he said, and perused—“perused” is the word for it—for some moments. However, I'd rather have a blow from the daughter than the mother. She could not resist enduing persons she met with the noble attributes of the fictional characters. What other reason could there be? It’s more complex, but it’s better. " "Poor soul!—poor soul!" groaned Wood, brushing the tears from his vision.
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