off sort of way, it did frighten me, because I had heard of people dying when they were ravingly delirious. Greg was n't raving exactly, but it was almost worse, because his voice was so small and different from his own dear usual one. When I told him I could n't get Simpson I tried to make my voice sound soft and cooey like Mother's when she's sorry, but it went up into a queer squeak instead, and I could n't finish somehow. Greg kept saying, "Simpson;—please—" and crying to himself.
I heard Jerry feeling around in the dark and then the click of his knife opening. I could n't think what he was doing, but after quite a long time he pushed something into my hand and said:
"Does that feel anything like it?"
"Like what?" I said, but the next minute I knew.
It did feel like Simpson—soft and flan-
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