Her mother—everyone right here will kindly shed a tear—was a woman. Only a woman, that is all, and yet it is through such noble creatures that life and love are possible. Let us pray. . . . From this disagreeable old half-washed harridan Angie inherited her sex which was, at least, so far, female, and a wild old goldfish who looked like William Jennings Bryan in a globular glass globe.
But hurry, reader, hurry; don’t stop to ask why! We must get us back to the shop to see our lovely heroine hard at work, the arctic zone of that hairy head wondering how to kindle the ardent temperament of her customers.
And especially she marked with indelible attention the pretty plaid Mister with purple spots and a beautiful half-burnt cigar who stood breathing puffs of peppermint into her fascinated face. How eagerly, when he picked up a hammer, she wondered how that would strike him! And when he turned with a sneer to the chisels and scissors she was in agony lest he should cut her dead. But six-cent cutlery is dull—as dull as our own (surely we may now call her so)
