"Don't? St'ira Dudley, if
you was a woman--if you was _half_ a woman--you'd never speak
to that little corpse-on-ice again."
"O 'Manda, don't call him names-! I can't bear to have you!"
"Names? If you was anybody at all, you wouldn't look at him! You
wouldn't _think_ of him!"
"O 'Manda, 'Manda! You know I can't let you talk so," moaned
Statira.
"Talk? I could talk my _head_ off! 'You must not think I was
provoked with you,'" she mimicked Lemuel's dignity of diction in
mincing falsetto. "'I will come to see you very soon.' Miserable,
worthless, conceited whipper-snapper!"
"O 'Manda, you'll break my heart if you go on so!"
"Well, then, give him up! He's goin' to give you up."
"Oh, he ain't; you know he ain't! He's just busy, and I know he'll
come. I'll bet you he'll be here to-morrow. It'll kill me to give
him up."
She had lifted herself from the pillow, and she began to cough.
"He'll kill you anyway," cried 'Manda Grier, in a passion of pity
and remorse. She ran across the room to get the medicine which
Statira had to take in these paroxysms. "There, there! Take it! I
sha'n't say anything more about him."
"And do you take it all back?" gasped Statira, holding the proffered
spoon away.
"Yes, yes! But do take your med'cine, St'ira, 'f you don't want to
die where you set."
"And do you think he'll come?"
"Yes, he'll come.
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