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AIN’T ANGIE AWFUL!
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gazed at it like a palmist giving a fifty-cent reading. But not so lovingly.
“My word,” he exclaimed, at last, “you are not manicured! Have you got the face to say you are not a monkey—and with that face?”
With a pitiful slob the proprietor of the Side Show of Freaks rushed out of the tent, leaving it there with Angie and the fly. For a moment the Fat Woman stopped eating, and even the fly turned pale. . . .
And Angie, poor Angie, so thusly duped, gazing sadly at her finger nails, so rich in real estate, realized too late that the way to a man’s heart is through the Beauty Parlor.
For no man could make a monkey of Angie; she hadn’t enough brains. And besides, monkeys, like poets, are born, not made.
