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. “Who do you think cares for your children as you dally with my husband, Clotilde?” Lucy asked. I have no intention of arresting you.
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