“Really, Sir John,” she said, “I don’t know how to thank you. 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. Were you born here, madame?’ ‘Mais non.
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