Couldn't get a job as a waitress at Coney. They make me sick, the poor boobs! Kiss me, Hal!
A package of books arrived from a bookshop.
Oh! I know what they are. Henderson told me he'd send 'em. Got to read 'em to see if they'll do for a picture. She cut the string and removed the wrapper. The Glimpses of the Moon, Babbitt, The Bright Shawl, The Vehement Flame, December Love, and a few others fell out. Zimbule tore open the uncut edges of one book with her finger, rapidly turning the pages, glancing at a line or two, and muttering Um—Um. Then: You read 'em, Des, you're stronger'n I am.
Why don't you do a snake-charmer picture? Harold suggested.
I don't want to see any more of those monsters. . . . Want to watch me take my exercises? She leaped from the bed, slipped out of her thin night-dress, and stood, her back to Harold, nude on the rose carpet, her palms on her haunches, arms akimbo, her tousled head turned coquettishly. Then, lifting her arms straight over her head, she began her exhibition of chamber athletics, stooping to touch the floor with her finger tips without bending her knees. She counted . . . twenty-seven, twenty-eight, twenty-nine, thirty. . . . Desdemona called out from the bathroom: Youah baff am suah ready, chile.
Wait for me! Zimbule pecked Harold's cheek with her lips, and skipped off to her tub. Presently
