“A ballot-box, you know,” he said, “is very largely just a box. I love. 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. He shut his eyes and groped for the wall to steady himself, wondering if this bit of mummery would get over.
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