To-morrow, we'll go to the Fleet and get spliced. Just as he was about to drain it, he encountered the basilisk glance of Jonathan Wild, and paused. 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. “What’s that for?” He said. He heard the woman talking again.
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