ten scenes of her infancy, and calmly wrapped herself up in brown paper.
“Here you are,” she said, firmly knotting the string about her waist. What she meant was, “Here I am!” But he understood. At such moments there is little need for words. One’s instinct speaks.
In another minute he was outside the store, and Angie, trembling like a kangaroo with the flu, felt herself being carried down, down, down into the Subway. Then all was dark, dark!
******
Three hours later, in a gorglorious apartment on the 101st floor of the Asdorf Waltoria, Angela regained consciousness, although her brain still reeled with the stupefying fumes of peppermint and romance. Her hero was gloating over his happy victim. Strewn about the room she counted several thousand cigar butts.
“Who are you?” she murmured loudly, “and why hast you took me here?”
“I am a manufacturer of tobacco ashes,” was his reply, “and I need somebody to sift them and pack them into silver cans.”
