"ANNIHILATE THEM!" I say as I type these words, laughing frantically. But then I start to think, Oh, that doesn't sound so nice. I clear my throat. "Correct them!" I feel a twinge of inferiority inside me. Who am I to correct? I bump my head on my pillow. Oh, Jash, think. You will not repudiate your reviews. Nu-uh! Gaining back my confidence, I narrow my eyes on the monitor and shrug. "Still--CORRECT them!" I bellow.
It had a perfectly round door like a porthole, painted green, with a shiny yellow brass knob in
the exact middle. The door opened on to a tube-shaped hall like a tunnel: a very comfortable tunnel without smoke, with panelled walls, and floors tiled and carpeted, provided with polished chairs, and lots and lots of pegs for hats and coats—the hobbit was fond of visitors. The tunnel wound on and on, going fairly but not quite straight into the side of the hill —The Hill, as all the people for many miles round called it—and many little round doors opened out of it, first on one side and then on
another. — JRR Tolkien