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Updated: July 11, 2025
The salesgirl started violently, and a deep flush drove the accustomed pallor from her cheeks. She was obviously much disturbed by the question. "What is it to me?" she repeated in an effort to gain time. "Why, nothing nothing at all!" Her expression of distress lightened a little as she hit on an excuse that might serve to justify her interest.
"I'll have to count them, so as to tell her how many there are; for I don't believe that by herself she could imagine such a lot of dolls together." Katy and Ellie had never had a doll in their lives, that is, a real boughten one, as they called those not of home manufacture. The kind salesgirl who had sent the orange to Ellie, from her post behind the counter, noticed the child's wonderment.
The tables had been carried inside; the lanterns taken down; the wonderful sign, pride of the talented Mr. Bemis, had been tenderly conveyed to the attic. Cook, waitresses and salesgirl had departed. The tea-room and gift shop had gone into winter quarters to hibernate until the following spring.
She would make a purchase to gain time, and then turn back to the bank building. She bought something she was in no need of, and prolonged the transaction to an interminable length, to the no small disgust of the salesgirl. When she got back to the machine, Sid was smiling more broadly than before. He had taken her place at the wheel.
She got out, with burning face and heart, without the article. Her first impulse was to shrink from a blow. But at table that night she recounted her experience: "The very courteous gentleman who informed me of your predicament happened to be a cousin of Mr. Banks, of Head and Banks. The salesgirl has Sam junior's Sunday-school class.
In Grand Street the holiday crowds jammed every store in their eager hunt for bargains. In one of them, at the knit-goods counter, stood the girl from the pawnshop, picking out a thick, warm shawl. She hesitated between a gray and a maroon-colored one, and held them up to the light. "For you?" asked the salesgirl, thinking to aid her.
An interested village salesgirl now looked on at a little scene the like of which had never come within the range of her experience. That three people, clearly so surprised to meet in this particular spot, should not proceed voluminously to explain to each other within her hearing the cause of their surprise, was to her an extraordinary thing.
Here, I have the orange still; take it to her, too." The child's eyes sparkled with pleasure as the salesgirl put the golden ball into her hand. "Ellie'll be awful pleased. I'll tell her you sent it, Julia," she said. Cash had, of course, another name: it was Katy Connors.
The lively man who in shirt sleeves dances with the jolly, plump salesgirl, the sunlight dripping through the vivid green of the tree leaves, lending dazzling edges to profiles, tips of noses, or fingers, is not the sullen ouvrier of Zola or Toulouse-Lautrec nor are the girls kin to Huysmans's Soeurs Vatard or the "human document" of Degas.
"Oh! oh, my!" exclaimed the salesgirl, distressed, as she contemplated the wreck of the architectural display. The disturbance at once brought the floor-walker to the spot. "Stupid!" he muttered, taking poor Cash by the shoulder. "Why don't you look where you're going? If you can't mind what you're about, we have no use for you here; remember that!"
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