The idea of Fifi's dying had of course never occurred to him.
Something put into his head the simple thought that he would never help
the little girl with her algebra again, and at once he was conscious of
an odd and decidedly unpleasant sensation, somewhere far away inside of
him. He felt that he ought to say something, to sum up his attitude
toward the unexpected event, but for once in his life he experienced a
difficulty in formulating his thought in precise language. However, the
pause was of the briefest.
"I think," said Sharlee, "the funeral will be Monday afternoon.... You
will go, won't you?"
Queed turned upon her a clouded brow. The thought of taking personal
part in such mummery as a funeral--"barbaric rites," he called them in
the forthcoming Work--was entirely distasteful to him. "No," he said,
hastily. "No, I could hardly do that--"
"Fifi--would like it. It is the last time you will have to do anything
for her."
"Like it? It is hardly as if she would know--!"
"Mightn't you show your regard for a friend just the same, even if your
friend was never to know about it?.
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