A barrel without a breechpiece is like a cup without a bottom.

It was all over.
There are days in spring when the white clouds go swiftly past, with occasional breaks of bright sunshine lighting up a spot in the landscape.

That is like the memory of one's youth.

There is a long dull blank, and then a brilliant streak of recollection.

Doubtless it was a year or two afterwards when, seeing that the natural instinct could not be suppressed but had better be recognised, they produced a real gun (single-barrel) for me from the clock-case.
It stood on the landing just at the bottom of the dark flight that led to the garret.