"What's that you're taking to Sir Rowland Trenchard's?" "Only a box, Sir," answered Sheppard, emptying the glass. 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. Die game. “Great!” Cathy squealed. He’s a prig to the finger-tips, is Sir John—doesn’t know what an artist is. “We have no airs and graces here, and my hat hangs from a peg in the passage.
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