was a quarter to eighteen. Her feet by this time were fully grown, and in other ways she was getting a figure. Occasionally for a whole minute at a time her mouth was not ajar. Beautiful? Well, hardly that. Angie looked too much as if she had been packed all the winter in a trunk, with camphor balls to keep the moths out of her circulation. Still, if anyone liked that sort of girl, Angie was just about the sort of girl one would simply hate.
The trouble was that nobody seemed to like that sort of girl. They wanted one with fewer elbows, and more eyelashes—one who didn’t boil over with frenzied yearning whenever a man passed her way. No one had ever made love to Angie, no one had ever even proposed. Angie always managed to propose first. No, Angie had never been hugged; she showed it plainly in every gesture. Yet she had the temperament of a mustard plaster. You see, if any man had ever hugged Angie, he would be hugging her yet. She would never have let go. But instead, he is hugging some other girl, less Angelic, someone with removable fins.
All these things had made Angie a
