He shrugged and, to Gerald’s relief, made to leave at last. His own heart was too full of melancholy foreboding. 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. Wood," returned Jackson, with the utmost composure; "you're a headborough, and a loyal subject of King George.
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