mouthpiece. It made her ill. She had to use a moustache cup for eating her soup.
Are there any more questions? No?—then we must proceed with our tale, like a mouse or a zebra.
The most beautiful things about Angie, except her wonderful capacity for being married, were her appetite and her hope. She had, the day before the story commences—yes, it has really commenced, at last—demonstrated both of these qualities by inserting the following advertisement in the evening paper, under the heading Male Help Wanted.
WANTED, A HUSBAND. Apply in person, to A. Bish, 2001 Avenue B., between 6 o’clock. Only experienced men desired. No Chinamen.
And outside her door she had pinned a Notice: Line Forms to Right.
But alas, husbands don’t come as easily as that, do they, Lillian? One can’t telephone for them and have them delivered C. O. D. wrapped in waxed paper in a neat box. One has to go out and catch them, like alligators or colds. But Angie didn’t know. She really didn’t know anything about Life, except what she saw on picture post cards.
