"To those who, like me, have never been able to get out of the dark and dreary paths of life, the grave is indeed a refuge, and the sooner they reach it the better. He spent the evening telling her stories of Greece as she sat in front of a roaring fire. The spirit I drink may be poison,—it may kill me,—perhaps it is killing me:—but so would hunger, cold, misery,—so would my own thoughts. What our dear mother would say back home I dread to think. It was something you were supposed to return, so she raced through all the television shows that she had watched over the years. He turned, expecting to see his wife.
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