I’m going to.

I’m going to sew up the incision I made.

“I’m going to take the boat,” Marjorie called to him.

“I’m terribly sorry I brought you along, Nickie,” said his father, all his postoperative exhilaration gone.

The lieutenant kept riding his horse out into the fields and saying to him, “I’m drunk, I tell you, mon vieux.”

I never saw this great-uncle, but I’m supposed to look like him⁠—with special reference to the rather hard-boiled painting that hangs in father’s office.

In consequence, I’m inclined to reserve all judgements, a habit that has opened up many curious natures to me and also made me the victim of not a few veteran bores.