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Updated: May 26, 2025
Her fine brown hair was neatly braided; her neat waist and unwrinkled black skirt were eloquent of the double virtues taste and economy. Ten yards behind followed the smitten Man from Nome. Miss Claribel Colby, the Girl from Sieber-Mason's, belonged to that sad company of mariners known as Jersey commuters.
And the day had been uncommonly troublous. Customers had been inordinately trying; the buyer in her department had scolded her roundly for letting her stock run down; her best friend, Mamie Tuthill, had snubbed her by going to lunch with that Dockery girl. The Girl from Sieber-Mason's was in that relaxed, softened mood that often comes to the independent feminine wage-earner.
"Miss," said the Man from Nome, with deeper earnestness and monotony, "I never saw anybody I liked as well as I do you. I know you can't think that way of me right yet; but can't you give me a chance? Won't you let me know you, and see if I can't make you like me?" The head of the Girl from Sieber-Mason's slid over gently and rested upon his shoulder.
"Lady," said the Man from Nome, respectfully, "excuse me for speaking to you, but I I I saw you on the street, and and " "Oh, gee!" remarked the Girl from Sieber-Mason's, glancing up with the most capable coolness. "Ain't there any way to ever get rid of you mashers? I've tried everything from eating onions to using hatpins. Be on your way, Freddie."
And so, with his gold dust cashed in to the merry air of a hundred thousand, and with the cakes and ale of one week in Gotham turning bitter on his tongue, the Man from Nome sighed to set foot again in Chilkoot, the exit from the land of street noises and Dead Sea apple pies. Up Sixth avenue, with the tripping, scurrying, chattering, bright-eyed, homing tide came the Girl from Sieber-Mason's.
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