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Updated: June 18, 2025
Through the mirror she could observe the mauve-colored swinging-door. "Did did Du Gass order that fish-tail model, madam?" Madam Moores dallied with her appointment-book. Through the mirror she could observe the mauve-colored swinging-door. "Yes, in green." "If I had her complexion I'd wear sandpaper to match it."
The presiding young man, slim and full of the small ways that ingratiate, and with a pomaded glory of tow hair rippling back in a double wave that women's fingers itched to caress and men's hands itched to thresh, pushed forward the mauve velvet chairs with a waiter's servility, but none of his humility; officiated over the crowded pages of the crowded appointment-book, jotted down measurements with an imperturbability that grew for every inch the tape-line measured over and above.
I can see by her profile she's hanging around to buy you your dinner to-night. Whatta you bet she springs the appointment-book yarn on you and you fall for it?" A laugh flitted beneath Mr. Michelson's blond hedge of mustache. "Can I help it that I got such hypnotizing, mesmerizing ways?" She smiled beneath her rouge, and wanly. "No, darling," she said.
He leaned to impale a pin upon his lapel. "She's so white to me, Gert, how can I squirm if she asks me to go over the appointment-book with her to-night?" "Tell her your grandmother's dead." He leaned for another pin. "Stick around down in Seligman's. If I dust my hat with my handkerchief when I pass, I'm nailed for the evening. If I can wriggle I'll blow you to Churchey's for supper."
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