A rich man's body is like a premium cotton pillow, white and soft and blank. Ours are different. My father's spine was a knotted rope, and the skin on his chest was so thin that you could see the ribs pressing out against it.
The boundaries which divide Life from Death are at best shadowy and vague. Who shall say where the one ends, and the other begins?
Habit is habit, and not to be flung out of the window by any man, but coaxed downstairs a step at a time.