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”—he seemed to have a difficulty with the word—“I love you. Mountains out of molehills and armies out of windmills; and you'll tire yourself in one direction and shatter yourself in the other. It’s no good hiding it any more.
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