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 I know it will be said, continued my father (availing himself of the Prolepsis) that in itself, and simply taken—like hunger, or thirst, or sleep'tis an affair neither good or bad—or shameful or otherwise.Why then did the delicacy of Diogenes and Plato so recalcitrate against it? and wherefore, when we go about to make and plant a man, do we put out the candle? and for what reason is it, that all the parts thereof—the congredients—the preparations—the instruments, and whatever serves thereto, are so held as to be conveyed to a cleanly mind by no language, translation, or periphrasis whatever?

The act of killing and destroying a man, continued my father raising his voice—and turning to my uncle Toby