“It isn’t a joke,” she said. 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. "You will never leave me," sobbed the poor woman, straining him to her breast. ‘Because,’ said Lady Bicknacre in the confidential manner of all matrons when passing on a tidbit of scandal, ‘Nicholas married against his father’s wishes and ran away. ‘Mad as hatters!’ ‘It is you who is mad,’ mademoiselle told him crossly.
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