uriantly. Or, haply, they strolled towards the East Side and reveled in the fragrant Portuguese fauna of the slums.
At night, scaling some lofty fire escape, high amongst the milk bottles they would together marvel at some heart-broken geranium, alone in the February frosts, or smile at the frozen gold fish in a neglected bowl of ice.
It was cold, so cold that even Angie’s kisses could not always warm them; but, as they sat hand-in-hand on some picturesque ash barrel their mutual shivers thrilled them to the epiglottis. At least they thrilled Angie’s. Mr. Frimp’s were hidden under that mop of Japanese black hair. And you never can tell what ears will do when you take your eyes off them.
And so love at last had come to Angela Bish—love such as poets sing—love such as you hear so much of from the hand-organs.
But, alas, in all the high-class love affairs there is always a Joker.
******
The marriage day had come, arriving promptly at 12.00, midnight.
Angie, cutting smart, diagonalized holes
