She dragged the broken bottle across her carotid artery, creating an inch-deep gash upon her throat. 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 have no right to love you. She would be surrendering to all her impulses—particularly the good impulses—many of which society had condemned long since because they entailed too much trouble. You are restless, aggressive, critical with all the crude unthinking criticism of youth.
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