" "Your secret?" demanded Trenchard, impatiently. ’ ‘He let them go?’ asked Miss Froxfield incredulously. Love stories!… A sob rushed into her throat, and to smother it she buried her face in a pillow. “It seems so unfair,” she said, “to take all you offer me and give so little in return. Let me recommend a glass of wine. 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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