Her caller pretended to blow his nose. He was really surreptitiously powdering it with a marshmallow. You never can tell, nowadays. And as he proceeded, he watched the girl closely.
“You are far from beautiful,” he admitted; “your face is on wrong. Your eyes are poorly fenestrated, and there is something about your general nasal expression that—you aren’t seasick are you, or anything, are you, Miss Bish?”
Angie wasn’t interested in anything female, including herself. All she wanted was to glue her lips to a man’s and see what happened. But it never did, and so, what Angie wanted to know was, When were they going to be married? She said as much. More. Much more. Much.
“I could make you beautiful,” it was now saying. “Build up a semblance of chin, rearrange your nose, blow up your eyes and—let’s see, two or three coats of rose-pink and a good varnish—one of those you can pour boiling water on, you know, and after sandpapering your cheeks down to a shapely curve—oh, Miss Bish, how I have longed to see what I could do with a really ugly
