A FAVOR TO SHOOT HER
"Evelyn, forgive me," I says, sorry enough for both of us, God knows.
"On one condition," says she, with all her wits, and putting a hand on the wound to stop its bleeding, "that you never tell on me. And help me."
Well, I was in such a state that I would have agreed to any other condition. But I says:
"On one condition—that you don't die."
"Agreed," she says. "I won't die. Oh, I'm so glad to live—now! It is really not much. In the lower left-hand corner of my jacket is a package of things for self-help in case of wounds—sewed in the lining. Cut it out."
As I took up the bloody jacket she laughed again and said:
"That's what I was making, and unmaking, like Penelope, daddy, dear. Not a trousseau, is it? And it is all beautifully done. Feather-stitching, felling, quilting! Look at it. And see what you've done to it—ruined it at the very first wearing. I said you were never to see it. And I meant it. But—you never can
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