Sheppard raised her eyes, and fixed them upon her interrogator. No more did she offer her forehead for the good-night kiss. He groped her buttocks. “I can’t conceive what you want. 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. Then I tucked it nice and snug under the saddle-bag. I don't want her hurt. I don’t think I’ve got illusions, nor you.
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