She let the door fall with a crash, and stood upon it with her arms
a-kimbo, sniffing prodigiously.
When we left the place, I accompanied her into her house, under the outer
gateway of the fortress, to buy a little history of the building. Her
cabaret, a dark low room, lighted by small windows, sunk in the thick
wall--in the softened light, and with its forge-like chimney; its little
counter by the door, with bottles, jars, and glasses on it; its household
implements are scraps of dress against the wall; and a sober looking woman
(she must have a congenial life of it, with Goblin) knitting at the door--
looked exactly like a picture by Ostade.
I walked round the building on the outside, in a sort of dream, and yet
with the delightful sense of having awakened from it, of which the light,
down in the vaults, had given, me the assurance. The immense thickness and
giddy height of the walls, the enormous strength of the massive towers,
the great extent of the building, its gigantic proportions, frowning
aspect, and barbarous irregularity, awaken awe and wonder.
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