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 I expect him back every minute. You can’t do that sort of thing unless you do it over religion, and there’s no religion in me—of that sort—worth a rap. She felt him as something solid and strong and trustworthy beyond measure.
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