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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. His grey eyes burned under his shaggy eyebrows. Saren Chen was a tall woman, thin and beautiful in a masculine way, Germanic. His conscience, however, was entirely another affair. ‘Precisely. Enschede's daughter. Her heartbeat raced, her limbs turned to water, and it was only by a miracle and the strength of the arms that held her that she remained standing on her feet. With this view, he descended the hill and presently found a footpath leading to the church. ‘Nothing of the sort,’ argued Gerald.
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