“Difficulties indeed. The road which wound by Westbourne Green, gave him a full view of the hill of Hampstead with its church, its crest of houses, and its villas peeping from out the trees. Spurlock was no longer a man before this instinct; he was a child in trouble. 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 replied. “Come,” he said, “you can’t be meaning to bury yourself. But an individual she never laid eyes on day before yesterday! And the minute he gets up, he'll head for the public bar.
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