Setting two slim but powerful hands upon the girl’s shoulders, Gloria Greene proceeded methodically to shake her. She shook her until her hat (oh, but it was a bad and shabby hat!) came off and rolled upon the floor. She shook her until her hairpins fell like hail and her brown-black hair struggled out of its arrangement (oh, but it was a poor and tasteless arrangement!) and tumbled about her face (and, oh, but it was a sallow and torpid face!). She further shook her until her eyes bulged out and a faint flame shone on her cheeks, and her buttons began to pop, and her breath rattled on her teeth, and she could barely gasp out:
“St-t-t-top! You’re shaking me to p-p-pieces!”
“Why not?” inquired Miss Greene blandly, and shook harder than before.
“D-d-d-dud-dud-don’t” wailed the victim. “W-w-wait a m-m-m-minute!”
The shaker desisted, still maintaining her grip. “What’s the matter?” she inquired.
“You’re killing me!”
“Then you don’t want to die, after all?” inquired the other.
“Not that way!” gasped the girl.
“It’s my regular treatment for dead-wish-ers.
“It’s brutal,” whimpered Darcy. “Everything’s brutal. The world’s brutal. I hate it! I wish I—Glooo-oria! Don’t begin again!”