"Well, I—I find it difficult to put into words."
"Try, dear lady. I have sold happiness to a thousand women like you over a thousand years."
"You what? What did you say?"
The peddler looked as if she had insulted him. He said, his chirp of a voice getting shriller still: "Did you actually think that I restricted my sale of happiness to one block—or perhaps one postal zone number—here in your city, here on this particular day on this particular yearly calendar? My dear lady! My very dear foolish lady, please tell me what it is you wish."
Mary-Jean blushed now that she had decided to go through with it, to bare her soul to this strange little peddler in a way that she had never bared it even to her own Tom, her husband, the sharer of and provider for her mundane existence. Still blushing, she said,
"I want to—to attract adventure. I—I want to be like a magnet for—a magnet for the iron filings of adventure! I want romance and exciting things to—to embrace me."
She clutched her throat wildly. The words had expressed her thoughts precisely, but they were not her own words. Or, more probably, they had come from her throat almost of their own volition.
And the little peddler laughed and laughed.
Mary-Jean felt suddenly crestfallen and strangely cheapened. She deserved this. She deserved his laughter. It was a new sales pitch, she had to admit that. The prospective buyer is made to practice self-mortification and then, to rid herself of the only witness of her shame, she buys almost anything.
"All right, I fell for it," Mary-Jean said. "What do I have to buy? I'll buy whatever you want. Just get out of here quickly."