birthday present from her dear, dead, fat father. Angela’s dress was equally black, if not blacker; her finger-nails were all pronounced brunettes. But, in those days, all her thoughts were blonde.
Angela thought, for instance, that if a man kissed her it would within four minutes be followed by a perfervid proposal of marriage. At this time Angie’s mind was not very strong. She was only thirteen years old, going on sixteen, and never yet had that funny face been kissed by mankind. Men had grabbed at her, of course, and even pecked at her lips; but no one yet had landed a base hit. Always she had struck them out.
Here’s a little pathetic bit about Angie, now we’re on the subject. Timidly, in private, ofttimes she would take down a photograph of Fairas Dougblanks, and lick it lovingly. Did he respond? Nay, he did but laugh at her—that same old lithographic grin. How cruel life can be, at times, to the working girl!
Don’t you already feel, dear reader, that you know Angela Bish? Can’t you almost see her lack of any real womanliness? If not, begin the tale again, and this time
