Perhaps if the year was 1447 instead of 1947 I might have hoodwinked my gentle nature by administering her some classical poison from a hollow agate, some tender philter of death. But in our middle-class nosy era it would not have come off the way it used to in the brocaded palaces of the past. Nowadays you have to be a scientist if you want to be a killer.
This, to use an American term in which discovery, retribution, torture, death, eternity appear in the shape of a singularly repulsive nutshell, was it.
You know, what's so dreadful about dying is that you are completely on your own.
And presently I was driving through the drizzle of the dying day, with the windshield wipers in full action but unable to cope with my tears.
Life is a great sunrise. I do not see why death should not be an even greater one.
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