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. “But how can you?” asked Constance. “We are not going the right way,” she exclaimed. It’s the poor dears who do, who know they will, know they can’t keep it up, who need to clutch at way-side flowers.
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