"Well, who'd have thought of Shotbolt beating us all in this way!" said Ireton. 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. A wild passion of shame and self-disgust swept over her.
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