She is the one whose
touch is like the cool caress of a snowflake, whose face is as void of
guile as the face of the Blessed Damosel.
There are others, scissor-Salomes and nail-file Dryads. Mr. Flo Ziegfeld
has nothing on George, the head barber, when it comes to an eye for color
and a sense for curve. But they are busy at the moment. The hair-tonic
Dons and the mud-pack Romeos are giving the girls a heavy play. Peewee
alone is at leisure. Therefore let us gallop quickly to the memoirs.
* * * * *
"H'm," says Peewee, "I'll tell you about men. Of course what I say doesn't
include all men. There may be exceptions to the rule. I say may be. I hope
there are. I'd hate to think there weren't. I'd get sad."
Steady, gentlemen. Peewee's doll face has lost guilelessness. Peewee's
face has taken on a derisive and ominous air.
"I'll give you the low down," says she with a sniff. "Men? They're all
alike. I don't care who they are or what their wives and pastors think of
them or what their mothers think of them. I got them pegged regardless.
Young and old, and some of them so old they've gone back to the milk diet,
they all make the same play when they come in here.
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