What lends a tragic mockery to all these tender traps of hers was that she was within lawful bounds. Ann Veronica was lying on her bed in a darkling room staring at the ceiling. 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. So, bloody but unbeaten, weak and spent but undaunted, he waited for the Wastrel to spring up. Just dreamed—and ran away even from my dreams. "Because they're in the next room, and the door's shut; that's vy, my jack-adandy!" replied Abraham, unsuspiciously.
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