" Jack again seized the bar, and, dashing it furiously against the door, speedily burst it open. “Why did you do it?” her aunt urged. 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. There are two ways to go in, you understand. All she had found was the love of this dog. During the narration Jack's features lighted up, and an expression, which would have been in vain looked for in repose, was instantly caught and depicted by the skilful artist. The title had formerly been held by Gianfrancesco’s brother, Alessia, now dead of plague. His large, coarse lips drew wider apart. McClintock was amused. "Goodness only knows what he's reserved for," rejoined the widow in a desponding tone; "but if Mynheer Van Galgebrok, whom I met last night at the Cross Shovels, spoke the truth, little Jack will never die in his bed.
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