You mustn't go dressing up Tom, Dick, and Harry in Henry Esmond's ruffles. 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. I ask you, although it is not my place to ask you, to return home. Will you read to me? I am tired; and the sound of your voice makes me drowsy. She was making it up. She’d have thrown this thing if you hadn’t stopped her.
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