“Is it any one you know?” Brendon asked. 1. “Married already,” he said, with his mouth full. “I have made over seven hundred pounds in the last week,” he said. There were seven tales in all—short stories—a method of expression quite strange to her, after the immense canvases of Dickens and Hugo. The distinction lay chiefly in the right to pat their heads. 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. He touched a long-standing sore, and Ann Veronica found herself vainly trying to explain—the inexplicable.
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