He ought to have blown out his brains a year ago.

He has behaved in a most unconscionable manner.

How does he expect me to break the news to Carlotta?
His selfishness is appalling.

There he lies, comfortably dead in the South Western Hotel, while Carlotta has literally not a rag to her back, her horrific belongings having been dropped into the dust-bin.

Who does he think is going to provide Carlotta with food and shelter and a pink dress?
What does he imagine is to become of the poor waif?
In all my life I have never heard of a more cynical suicide.
I have walked about for hours, laughing and cursing and kicking the binding loose of my precious Muratori.