Her eyes were lit with a gleam of humour. Wild's figure. 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 had a quick, shrewd, merry eye, and a look in which duplicity was agreeably veiled by good humour. The image of Major Alderley came into her mind. “I’d chuck this lark right off if I were you, Vee,” he said. Worse than any man.
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