Montague Hill. 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. A hollow feeling opened up inside her, and she felt her heartbeat quicken. A slow anger burned in the man. He did not like it, he said, with a significant look, to be reminded of either his books or his dinners after he had done with them.
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