Wicket."
Mrs. Wicket tried to assure Mrs. Grumble that she had not been any
trouble to her. But Mrs. Grumble said weakly:
"Maybe when I was out of my head . . ."
"Don't you fret yourself a mite about that," cried Mrs. Wicket; "for
that's all over. Now you're going to get well."
"No," said Mrs. Grumble, "no, I'm not going to get well. I'm going to
die." She thought over, in silence, what she had just said, and it
appeared to satisfy her. At the thought of death she was calm and
willing. "I remember," she remarked, "how I used to have a horror of
dying. I was afraid to die, without having done anything to make me
out different from anybody else. But I guess nobody's any different
when it comes to dying, Mrs. Wicket. It feels easy and natural."
"Don't you so much as even think of it," said Mrs. Wicket.
Mrs. Grumble smiled. "There's no use trying to fool me," she declared.
"I'm not afraid any more. I'd like to see Mr. Jeminy before I go. I'd
like to know he was in good hands. I'd like to think you'd look after
him a bit, Mrs.
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