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. The particulars of her engagement were very clear in her memory. She cursed the treachery of memory, its frailty and spottiness. She rolled to one side. And severely hurt that pig, which was a very good thing. Without realizing what she has done, she's made a dreadful mess of it.
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