Then the girl was heading past the inn and Roding marched down to confront her. "Halloa, widow!" shouted a rough voice from below, "where the devil are you?" 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. “I want a vote for myself,” she said. But the girl stood outside the circle of Ah Cum's knowledge—rather profound—of human impulses. Through this, his last trial, Jack's spirits never deserted him.
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