"With all my heart. There is my hand."
"The blow I gave you was a severe one."
"Rather, I could have returned it with interest. I was once a good boxer, but I wish to be your friend. Cannot I persuade you, Rushmere, to renounce this vile habit, and escape from the ruin which it involves."
"I cannot promise you, Mr. Fitzmorris even to try. It is the only relief I have. The only antidote to misery like mine. The sooner it kills me, the sooner I shall get rid of this wretched world. I hate and loathe my life, and want to die."
"That would be all very well, if you could kill your soul. But though you may sinfully abuse and destroy the machine in which it dwells, to destroy that, is beyond your power. It is only the God who made it, that can destroy both body and soul in hell. Suppose that you succeed in killing yourself, you will find the second state worse than the first, a whole eternity of misery, instead of a few years spent on earth. Don't push me off, Rushmere, I can't see you perish in this foolish way, without trying to convince you of your sin."
"I will listen to you some other time. I have heard enough for one night. If you could tell me how to get rid of my wife, I would listen to you patiently all day."
He brushed hastily past, his foot caught on a stone, and he measured his length upon the dusty road.
"See, you are not in a fit state to guide yourself." And Gerard once more set him on his feet.
"Go out of my way. I can get on without you. If you knew how jolly a glass makes me feel, you would get drunk too," and he staggered on singing at the top of his voice:
"Which is the properest day to drink? Sunday."