Description

Yes, that's my bag. I left it at the lace counter. Thank you. Please give it to me. What? I must prove property? Why, don't you see it's mine? That twisty silver monogram on the side is really E. C. S. That's my name, Ella C. Saunders. I told Jim I thought the letters were too wiggly to be easily read, but I never thought anybody'd want to read it but me. Describe contents? Why, of course I can describe the contents! In one pocket is a sample of lace, just Platte Val, you know, not an expensive lace, and with it-I think it's with it-is a sample of rose-colored crêpe de Chine-that is, not exactly rose-colored-sort of crushed plummish or burnt magenta-but no-come to think, I left those samples with my dressmaker. Well, anyway, there's a Subway ticket-or let me see, did I use that coming down? I believe I did! Well, there's a little memorandum card that slips in-the celluloid sort, you know. No, there's nothing written on it. I don't use it because, though they pretend you can wash them like a slate, you can't. They just smudge. What do you mean by saying I haven't told a definite thing yet? I've told you lots! Well, there's some money-I don't know how much; some chicken feed, as Jim calls it-and a five-dollar bill, I think-oh no-I paid that to the butcher.