For some time she sat where she was, looking straight ahead through the window across the room into a scene of indistinct grays and greens. She stretched her face and her neck muscles and drew in a long breath but the scene in front of her flowed together anyway into a watery gray mass. “They needn’t think I’m going to die any time soon,” she muttered, and some more defiant voice in her added: I’ll die when I get good and ready.
Flannery O’Connor, “Greenleaf,” 1956