And for twelve years he has been so; until his long security, well-nigh obliterating remembrance of the deed, has bred almost a sense of innocence within his breast. 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. See how he gets on, father," he added, appealing to Wood: "the box seems to grow under his hands. The wish was vain: and, endeavouring to banish every earthly thought, he addressed himself deeply and sincerely to prayer. “The horse’s knees are broken, and I am not sure that the man is sober. Did he see him, this Monsieur Charvill?’ ‘I don’t rightly know, miss,’ confessed Kimble. —Jonathan Wild: August 31st, 1724.
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