"Well, yes. Only—"
"We'll discuss it later." She looked along a row of shelves against one wall, searching the labels on the stacks of bundles there. She drew one out and pushed it toward me. "Please open that and put on the things you'll find inside."
I tore open the bundle. It contained a very plain business suit, black shoes, shirt, tie and a hat with a narrow brim.
"Are these supposed to be my burial clothes?"
"I asked you to put them on," she said. "If you want me to make that a command, I'll do it."
I looked at the gun and I looked at the clothes and then for some shelter I could change behind. There wasn't any.
She smiled. "You didn't seem concerned about my modesty. I don't see why your own should bother you. Get dressed!"
I obeyed, my mind anxiously chasing one possibility after another, all of them ending up with my death. I got into the other things and felt even more uncomfortable. They were all only an approximate fit: the shoes a little too tight and pointed, the collar of the shirt too stiffly starched and too high under my chin, the gray suit too narrow at the shoulders and the ankles. I wished I had a mirror to see myself in. I felt like an ultra-conservative Wall Street broker and I was sure I resembled one.
"All right," she said. "Put the envelopes in your inside pocket. You'll find instructions on each. Follow them carefully."
"I don't get it!" I protested.