She was just a Nice Girl, with a few adenoids.
So Angie waited—and what is more pathetic than a waitress!
So Angela waited, also, manicuring her teeth, and counting her fingers, never quite able to decide whether or not she had made a mistake in the total.
So waited Angela Bish, waited while she seemed to see her youth departing, softly, silently, like a hall roomer who hasn’t paid his rent.
Came a day (we’re not saying “there came” this season) when Angie decided to open her last package of cyanide—when—when—a knock on her chamber door sent her blood pressure up to 313.
“Yes!” Instinctively Angie had yelled it out before he had had time to change his mind, if he had had one. That day she would have married any man, or any day. She would have married anyone who was even partly a man—a mandrake, or amanuensis.
Now I suppose, dear little reader, you are smiling and expecting some rich, handsome marcelled hero to enter. Well, so was Angie.
