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Twofifty, I thought, angrily squirting a fine mist at a particularly dreary spot and it isnt even selling. Manual labor. Working with my hands. I might as well be a gardener. College training. Wide experience. Alert and aggressive. In order to dribble stuff smelling sickeningly of carnations on a wasted yard. I coiled up my hose disgustedly and collected a reluctant five dollars.
I won't say she was an easy sale, but afterall I'm a psychologist; I found all her weak points and touched them expertly. Even so, she made me cut my price in half, leaving me only twofifty according to my agreement with Miss Francis, but it was an icebreaker. I got the pump and hose, collecting at the same time an audience of brats who assisted me by shouting, "What ya goin a do, mister?"
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