Twenty tales by twenty women: From real life in ChicagoAnonymous
General
Twenty tales by twenty women: From real life in Chicago
Anonymous
Chicago (Ill.) -- Moral conditions; Prostitution -- Illinois -- Chicago
“Now, that is right; take that big, soft chair and here, for goodness
sake, let me take your hat. I was just telling my fortune, and don’t you
know, it just came out fine, not a bad card in it—isn’t that jolly? And
would you like to have your fortune told? No, I am not in that business
and will not charge you, so there now, isn’t that cheap enough?”
To which I replied that I should prefer to be entertained by her own
conversation than to have any forecast added by reading the spots.
“Oh, well, I can’t entertain.”
“Yes, but you can give me some news.”
“News?”
“Yes.”
“What subject can I enlighten you on?”
“Well, you are such an interesting little body I think I should like to
know all about yourself.”
“All that I know is that I am in love, and, oh, yes, I am very, very
rich, I guess, at least my lawyer says so.”
“I did not know you were a woman of wealth.”
“I know. You see no one knows that but my attorney and myself, and now
that I have told you, you also know it, but you won’t tell it, will you?”
“Not if you wish it to remain a secret, but now that you have told me so
much, will you tell me why you do not want the fact to become public?”
“Well, you see, as I said, I am in love, and I guess to tell you one part
I must tell you all, but you are one of those horrid newspaper reporters.
You will have that all printed.”
“No, not until you have given your permission.”
“Have some candy, and see, here is a present I just received yesterday.
Isn’t he a little darling?”
Whereupon this little one hundred ten pound mite of humanity dropped a
silk poodle from under a soft comforter with one hand while she passed a
box of Allegrettis to me with the other. While I in turn patted the dog
with one hand and at the same time relieved the box of a couple of pieces
of the sweet-meats.
“Now,” said I, “let’s have a story.”
“Well, you see, it was this way. I was born in Janesville, Wisconsin. My
father was a mechanic; he was poor, so very poor, that my mother’s folks,
who were rich, got awfully mad when she married papa. They would not go
to see her nor allow her to go to see them.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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