“There wasn’t. 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. And I’m off to America, and if my steamer goes to the bottom of the Atlantic I’ll thank the Lord for it.
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