Nothing, ſays Seneca, is ſo melancholy a circumſtance in human life, or ſo ſoon reconciles us to the thought of our own death, as the reflection and prospect of one friend after another dropping round us!
And then you add to it the judgment that the victims are some form of deserving species of ratness, further reducing the numbers. But ratness is relative, right?
We are disgusted with that clamorous grief, which, without any delicacy, calls upon our compassion with sighs and tears and importunate lamentations.
You're afraid of losing the customer. If I offer them this other product, they might stop buying that product for which they've come to me for years. Bird in the hand, right?
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