We Die Only Once, And For Such

There's A Sort Of Decency Among The Dead, A Remarkable Discretion: You Never Find Them Making Any Complaint Against The Doctor Who Killed Them!

It Infuriates Me To Be Wrong When I Know I'm Right.

Innocence Is Not Accustomed To Blush. [fr., L'innocence A Rougir N'est Point Accoutumee.]

Even Rome Cannot Grant Us A Dispensation From Death.

There Is No Rampart That Will Hold Out Against Malice.