"Put down your burthen, monster!" shouted Wood, pointing an immense blunderbuss at him. ’ A panel slid open and she stepped into the relative light of the little dressingroom, Kimble close behind her. She could still feel his psychic presence all around her, and she knew he was thinking of her. 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. And the grotesquest fact was that she did not so much loathe, as experience with a quite critical condemnation this strange sensation of being kissed. Her white shirt was mired with a central bloodstain, his pants caked with mud. Vorsack would just have to live with it.
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