cide, and had about decided to specialize in Rough on Rats, Romance was already sneaking into her hall bedroom, disguised in special delivery. The letter was unsigned, but she recognized the perfume as one on sale by all the best soapists.
“Oft,” it began—and she smiled. Angela liked soft letters, and one that began with “oft,” she knew, would be as gooey as the inside of a ripe Camembert cheese.
“Oft have I admired your smart closed carriage, your proud boardwalk, the graceful swinging of your gait. They have quite run away with my heart, although my liver and lungs still remain unmoved. If you care to share a little whale and buttermilk at Kid’s restaurant tonight with one who adores the very tacks you walk on, wire Ham-and-eggs, care United Stogie Store, No. 1112, Hoboken-on-the-Sewer. I thank you. Green Mustache.”
Hatched in the happiness of her soul, a baby hope, no bigger than a Boston baked bean, flapped its beak and cawed in ecstasy. That day for lunch Angela Bish ate a heavy dessert to keep her spirits down. But, all the afternoon, the girls at the Almost-Fur
