He called here on his way back, after he had been to Bedlam to visit poor 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. ‘Softly, you say?’ she uttered, raging. “It really seems as if we shall have to put down marigolds altogether next year,” Aunt Molly repeated three times, “and do away with marguerites. Either Sydney or Mr. “Of course, one lives differently in Paris, but then—Paris is Paris. The little grating in the door, the sense of constant inspection, worried her. And your great-niece.
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