I'll write an opera the scene of which shall be laid altogether in Newgate, and the principal character shall be a highmaywan. In passing, why do we fear death? For our sins? Rather, isn't it the tremendous inherent human curiosity to know what is going to happen to-morrow that causes us to wince at the thought of annihilation? A subconscious resentment against the idea of entering darkness while our neighbour will proceed with his petty affairs as usual? "It's nip and tuck," said the doctor; "but we'll pull him through. Now he lay there, a doubled-up mass, with ugly distorted features, and a dark wet stain dripping slowly on to the carpet. “She told you that?” “Yes. She tiptoed into the entryway where some decorator had placed a live orchid upon a glassy ebony table. I'll tell you what.
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