But I'm a woman of my word and this chronicle is faithful and true. Coming home on the L, I saw the beamish Buffalo, and he saw me and plunged to me through the crowd, saying gleefully, "Say, girlie, I've thought of you a million times, and I—say, listen, I got in awful Dutch with the wife about you, and she said"—but I slipped nimbly into my local and the door slapped shut between us.
Your heroines, Emma, were not so light on their feet. But I honestly felt mean,—he did look so friendly and fat.
I'm to have eight a week in my basement. Mrs. Mussel gets five of it and the rest I may waste in riotous living.
Good night!
Jane.
Three Nights Later.
Dear M.D. and E.E.,
Please dash downtown and have a million service medals struck off and then rush around and pin them on all the shop girls in the world! The unutterable weariness—the aching, burning, sagging, sickening, faint tiredness!
If ever again, as long as I live, I'm cross to a saleswoman, no matter how cross she may be to me, then may God send a sudden angel down to grasp me by the hair and bear me far and drop me into the kitchen ware on eight a week and my throbbing feet!
Jane.