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Updated: May 12, 2025
That lady, seeing her enter one day with her comic, undulating gait, double-actioned like a giraffe's, and her plumes that would have shamed a Knight of Pythias, decided to put a stop to these unprofitable visits. She waited on Mrs. G. Manville Smith, a dangerous gleam in her eye. "Scourine," spake Mrs. G. Manville Smith. "How many?" "A dozen." "Anything else?" "No. Send them." Mrs.
Brandeis, scribbling in her sales book, stopped, pencil poised. "We cannot send Scourine unless with a purchase of other goods amounting to a dollar or more." Mrs. G. Manville Smith's plumes tossed and soared agitatedly. "But my good woman, I don't want anything else!" "Then you'll have to carry the Scourine?" "Certainly not! I'll send for it." "The sale closes at five." It was then 4:57.
Brandeis sold Scourine two cents cheaper than the grocery stores, using it as an advertisement to attract housewives, and making no profit on the article itself. Mrs. G. Manville Smith always patronized Brandeis' Bazaar for Scourine alone, and thus represented pure loss. Also she my-good-womaned Mrs. Brandeis.
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