Finis! Not so good. He sang it
all the way through and his voice grew better and better. Take him away.
We didn't like the way his eyes blazed back at us when the pennies fell.
Not so good. Not so good.
Here she is. Little Bertha, the Sewing Machine Girl. In the flesh. And
walking across the slippery dance floor with her French heeled patent
leathers wiggling under her. Bertha's the doodles. This is the way she
stood at the piano at Sadie's party. This is the way she smiled at the
errand boys and counter jumpers at Sadie's party. This is the way she
bowed and this is the song she sang to them that they applauded so much.
And this is too good to be true. Bravo six times. Dimes and quarters and a
majestic half dollar that takes Bertha on the ear. Bravo eleven times.
Bertha stands smirking and moving her shoulders and singing in a piping
little shop-girl voice. Encore, _cherie!_ Encore! And it goes to
Bertha's head. The applause and laughter, the lights and the pounding of
the pennies falling out of heaven around her feet--these are too much for
Bertha. She ends. Her arms make a gesture, a weak little gesture as if she
were embracing one of the errand boys in a vestibule, saying good-night. A
vague radiance comes over Bertha's face.
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