CHAPTER VIII.
THE ADVENTURE OF THE DUMB DECEIVER
AT twenty-one, most girls you know know little, so little they little know how little they know. If you don’t believe this, try it on your piano. Angela Bish inherited her double-zero intellect from her father who, before his vaccination was a middle-aged mud-eater of the Orinoco. However little she knew, however, she knew she knew little. And this she had acquired by painful inexperience.
Angie had never thought of anything less important than marriage, if anything can be less important. But marriage had never taken Angie seriously. It had never taken her at all. It had only winked at her, like a blueheaded fireman on a hose cart, as it hurtled past.
And yet Angie wasn’t bad looking, really. Why should she be? She wasn’t really bad. Her black eyes curled naturally, and her hair was heavily plated with gold. Why then did men shun her as if she were taking
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