‘You do not understand, Gérard. Sepulchre's church was covered—so was the tower. He did not particularly care. The villagers were thronging to church. Had he had the child to think of, he might have recovered from his grief at Mary’s death. 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 must stay a minute longer, if only to see you smile. I do not command the services of a person who will not tell me why he offers them.
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