We can't tell when we're liable to need a grave." "Goodness gracious sakes! Don't talk about cemetery lots and graves.
You give me the blue creeps.

Go to bed and rest up.

You're tired, and no wonder; you've moved no less'n three times since mornin', and they say one movin's as bad as a fire.

Here! Give me that tea-cup.

There's nothin' left in it but grounds, and you don't want to drink THEM." Miss Timpson relinquished the cup, took her lamp and climbed the stairs.
Her good night was as mournful as a funeral march.