house of the spirits

Alone at the Chateau de Healy looking down upon the wintery fields from the high window in the west wing.
The handsome features of the young laird were pale and drawn.
(Heelers is referring to himself. - Ian O'Doherty note.)
The ghost of John Donne appeared at my shoulder.
He seemed anxious to declaim something.
"Speak Spirit," I commanded.
The ghost of John Donne paused for effect.
Then he began.
"No man is an island intire of itself.
Every man is a part of the continent, a piece of the main.
Every man's death diminishes meeeeee.
Therefore do not send to know whom the Johnston Press has just fired from the Leinster Leader.
They've just fired theeeeeeee."
The ghost of John Donne disappeared again, as is his wont.
I remained like a statue at the window.
The wind skirled in the hedgerows.
I was contemplating a bleak future.
The ghost of Mrs Moran appeared at my shoulder.
"To hell with poverty," she said in her rich West of Ireland accent, "we'll kill a hin."
I thought it was quite the funniest thing I'd ever heard.