My name is Armytage—Lord Ernest Armytage. An early bird clarinetist burst through in a long black skirt, swishing like a bell. Her father had determined on a new line. " "Wrong? What the devil could be wrong?" McClintock had demanded, irascibly. 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've just recollected that my husband left a key with me, which he charged me to give you when I could find an opportunity.
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