I folded the paper. "So it's not the fact that he's a killer that should bother me, it's that he's a killer having some kind of psychological meltdown?"
"For starters." He placed an index finger to his nose. "I hear he's dipping into his own supply."
I shrugged. Man, was I sick of this shit...
paragraph? He began to sing. The Doctor had but one air—, ‘Malbrouck s’en va-t-en guerre;’ even with that he was on terms of mere politeness; and his musical exploits were always reserved for moments when he was alone and entirely happy.
It's from "The treasure of Franchard," by Louis Stevenson.