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106 gazed at it like a palmist giving a fifty-cent reading. But not so lovingly.

“My word,” he exclaimed, at last, “you are not manicured! Have you got the face to say you are not a monkey—and with that face?”

With a pitiful slob the proprietor of the Side Show of Freaks rushed out of the tent, leaving it there with Angie and the fly. For a moment the Fat Woman stopped eating, and even the fly turned pale.

And Angie, poor Angie, so thusly duped, gazing sadly at her finger nails, so rich in real estate, realized too late that the way to a man’s heart is through the Beauty Parlor.

For no man could make a monkey of Angie; she hadn’t enough brains. And besides, monkeys, like poets, are born, not made.