Angie was dreaming she was being kissed by Lloyd George, when she was awakened by a fly philandering across her upper lip. She was alone in a circus tent with her captor and the fly. The latter she instantly recognized as one she had known quite intimately, on Avenue B. The former was just as unknown as usual. The heat was intense, as it sometimes is in tents; and somewhere in the middle distance she could distinctly hear a Fat Woman eating cream with a ladle. A clock struck Four. Angie felt that it was long past three o’clock.
“Where were you born?” demanded he to which we have already referred.
This was a strange question, thought Angie. Some, indeed, had asked her When she was born, but most asked merely Why. She was a strange girl, especially to strangers.
“In Mozambique?”
Angie trembled like a guava jelly. But she could not tell a lie; no one can with a mouth full of table cloth.
“Come here!” He fairly uttered the words. And then, seizing her hand, he
