“You’re Glorious!” said Miss Miniver in tones of rapture, holding a hand in each of hers and peering up into Ann Veronica’s face. 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. His name was Marvel, and his avocation, which was as repulsive as his looks, was that of public executioner. He did not come out of his chloroform coma and sailed weakly to his death.
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