In this cell was a huntsman, who had fractured his skull while hunting, and was perpetually hallooing after the hounds;—in that, the most melancholy of all, the grinning gibbering lunatic, the realization of "moody madness, laughing wild. ‘I rather gathered as much,’ said Miss Froxfield, releasing her hands. She had, it was true, accepted doubtfully the pen he had offered.
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