Canton was something like a blind alley; unless you were native, you couldn't get anywhere except by returning to Hong-Kong and starting afresh. "What can it matter to you whether he returns or not, child," rejoined Mrs. Rain changed to hail, then 154 sleet, then snow. When she awoke, she felt sick, her mouth still salty with blood. That had shut him up for a while. 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. All in a moment.
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