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T was Spring in New York. Don’t you just love stories that begin that way—or do you prefer Autumn? It was spring in New York, nevertheless. It was Spring, also, on Avenue B. Indeed it often is, at that time of year. Bright red flannels were burgeoning on the clothes lines, and on  the fire-escapes the milk bottles lent their  vivid note of blue. Aye, it was Spring for kiddies and frisky puppy dogs; but it was  Spring no more for the late Tom-cat in the  area. Alas, he had not yet been removed by the Board of Health!

What was Angela Bish thinking of as she gazed so perpendicularly out the casement? Was it of love or lobsters, of lingerie, or Charlie Chaplin? No. There was only one thing Angie ever thought much about—nothing. She was thinking about it now. She had been thinking about it so long that her  wrist was asleep.

Angie was quite a young lady, now. She 38