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And you feel that, after all, there's only one reg'lar place on the map here, where you can either pay a nickel for a hot-dog breakfast off a pushcart, or blow in ninety cents for a pair of yesterday's eggs in a Fifth Avenue grill: where you can see lovely lady plutesses roll by in their heliotrope limousines, or watch little Rosie Chianti sail down the asphalt on one roller skate. Uh-huh!
And Marjorie was just as nice as she was heavy. She didn't try to carry any dog; but just blazes ahead and spiels out the talk. I get next to the fact that she's just home from one of them swell boardin' schools, where they pump French and music into young lady plutesses at a dollar a minute, and throw in lessons on how to say "Home, François!" to the chaffeur.
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