Then he fell forward upon the bed, groaning, and his voice died gradually away.

Gibbie had listened to all he said, but the awe of hearing his father talk to one unseen, made his soul very still, and when he ceased he fell asleep.
Alas for the human soul inhabiting a drink-fouled brain! It is a human soul still, and wretched in the midst of all that whisky can do for it.

From the pit of hell it cries out.

So long as there is that which can sin, it is a man.

And the prayer of misery carries its own justification, when the sober petitions of the self-righteous and the unkind are rejected.