She put a hand to the lad’s cold cheek and choked on a sob. It was the only time she had ever hit him, punched him right in the stomach like one of his favorite Three Stooges episodes. She then dried her eyes, and laying her child gently upon the floor, knelt down beside him. She began at once a hasty readjustment of her hair, while Ramage parleyed with inaudible interrogations. She had never had a real doll. To lose was death, quickly and mercilessly delivered. 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. So you, Jacques, must go and wait for me with the horse.
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