‘What in the world is that?’ demanded Miss Froxfield. "And you have seen … drunken men?" Prudence's tones were full of suppressed horror. It was open. It’s a world of dirt and skin diseases and parasites. 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. Gladstone would have to a carelessly displayed interior on a dissecting-room table.
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