needing a curl paper, twisted up her front fetlock in the billion dollar bill, and then forgot all about it. But her disappointitude she could not forget. She was sore about it—as sore as if she had fallen off the top of the Woolworth Building at dawn; or possibly a few hours later.
Only once that day did Angie smile. It was when, in the Subway, a large insurance man trod on her foot. But, on watching him anxiously-hopeful for the follow-up, she was forced to conclude that it had been a mere accident. He seemed to be doing it to everybody. Aren’t men all polygamous?
The shock gave her a severe heartburn, and so she had to hold her foot in her lap all the way to Wall Street. From there to the Battery, however, the crowd thinned, and it wasn’t so embarrassing; she was able to rest her shoe on the knees of a Belgian Quartermaster with three wound stripes.
******
That forenoon, in the Comfy Underwear Factory, as Angela sat sewing buttons on the horsehair shirts, the girls saw tears wriggling out of her eyes. But they knew Angie
