She slipped on a white clingy imitation silk tee-shirt, a sexy number that Shari had bought on super-sale at the Limited. It was precious for two reasons: it was the photograph of her beautiful mother whom she could not remember, and it would identify her to the aunt in Hartford. I didn’t believe him and I said so. 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. It was owing to the untimely end of this poor fellow that Mrs. But his role was altered, and he was now playing the bridegroom in this remarkable drama.
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