"Unless you have eaten a Syrian orange," he was always saying, "you have only a rudimentary idea of what an orange is. ‘You will release me at once, imbecile. ’ Kimble’s widening gaze told its own tale, but still he kept his fingers on the handle of the door. No— no, it must never be. 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.
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