"So now it’s suicide?" He was avuncular, soothing, skeptical. "Of course you’ve been thinking of suicide. Everyone does. Very few ever really do it. Even men and women doing hard labor in death camps find reason to go on living. They never bite their own tongues out, or open their veins with their fingernails, or run headlong into the wall, or any of those childish jailbirds’ fantasies." His voice rose. "Mrs. Webster, you’re in the upper level here. You’re in special custody . Believe me, this city’s slums are full of men and women, and even children , who’d cheerfully kill to have it as easy as you do."