You are
getting along fine, when all of a sudden she dabs your nails with
a red paste and then snatches up a kind of a polishing tool and
ferociously rubs your fingers until they catch on fire. Just
when the conflagration threatens to become general she stops using
the polisher and proceeds to cool down the ruins by gently
burnishing your nails against the soft, pink palm of her hand. You
like this better than the other way. You could ignite yourself by
friction almost any time, if you got hold of the right kind of a
chamois skin rubber, but this is quite different and highly soothing.
You are beginning to really enjoy the sensation when she roguishly
pats the back of your hand--pitty pat--as a signal that the operation
is now over. You pay the check and tip the lady--tip her fifty
cents if you wish to be regarded as a lovely jumpman or only
twenty-five cents if you are satisfied with being a vurry nice
fella--and you secure your hat and step forth into the open with
the feeling of one who has taken a trip into a distant domain and
on the whole has rather enjoyed it.
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