So now you know why Angela Bish, gazing so violently at the demised fireplace in her small apartment, this cold ten o’clock, felt so gizzardless and unfastened in the small of the back. The temperature was far below par, and already Angie’s hair was frozen.
Only 5,000 in six weeks! Why, it would have been cheaper she thought to buy new matches and burn them herself! More fun, too; especially on a day like the aforesaid. And wouldn’t they make just as good spaghetti as the real ones growing on the sidewalk and in the gutters? No one need ever know.
We have spoken of a fireplace, just as if Angie was really living. Pardon the prevarication. Angie’s room rent had not been paid for some time—her landlady said even longer—and she was now dwelling in two pine packing cases in an alley behind a garage. As only simple portieres of gunny sacking protected her from the curiosity of the limousines which prowled about her domicile, she had to be very careful what she ate.
For many days she had been nourished on the paste she begged from benevolent bill-
