The barometer says nothing, neither the sky nor the water; the skipper has the "feel" that out yonder there's a big blow moving. She could feel her body rebel against her actions, convulsing, so she forced herself to think of her mother in Heaven, her mother's beautiful face, the sun dancing across the rivers of her home. Anything else that was said she now regarded only as an aspect of or diversion from that. The thought of beauty became an obsession. 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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