But if she had murdered two children, I'd gladly see her spend her final years on earth in a cell with an iron-hard bed and an overflowing shitter in the corner.
All flowers in field or forest which unclose
Their trembling eyelids to the kiss of day,
Swinging their censers in the element,
With orient incense lit by the new ray
Burned slow and inconsumably, and sent
Their odorous sighs up to the smiling air […]
Any way I slice it, that's going to take some time. Just flying there and back is going to eat up days.
[N]oise and disrespect of no kind ain't pleasin' to him. His own folks behave becomin', but strangers go and act as they like. . . . Then we are picked at for their doin's.
