His literary instincts were reviving. “But it is so difficult——” “Not at all,” he answered eagerly. The winter had turned sea and sky to a wet gray. This laughter released something that had been striving for expression—her own natural buoyancy. 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.
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