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. It was not your fault you failed. "And who is this Van Gal—Gal—what's his outlandish name?" "Van Galgebrok," replied the widow. "But you mustn't indulge these gloomy thoughts. He came along, he said, just to call, with large, loud apologies, radiantly kind and good. She was suddenly very aware of the room, the television still blaring, and the chill in the air.
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