“Forgive my coming in,” she said to Ennison. Each morning his inquiry was properly answered: the patient was steadily improving, but none could say when he would be strong enough to proceed upon his journey. He was by no means certain that she would not in fact attempt to blow off his head as she had threatened. 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. But what can we do? Here am I, fixed to respectability and this laboratory; you’re living at home.
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