A pathetic little man, carrying home with unbounded faith day after
day bottles of liquid foods and beef capsules, and making wistful
comments on them when he returned.
"She couldn't seem to keep that last stuff down, Mr. Cameron," he
would say. "I'll try something else."
And he would stand before his shelves, eyes upturned, searching,
eliminating, choosing.
Miss Boyd attended to the general merchandise, sold stationery and
perfumes, candy and fancy soaps, and in the intervals surveyed the
world that lay beyond the plate glass windows with shrewd,
sophisticated young eyes.
"That new doctor across the street is getting busier," she would
say. Or, "The people in 42 have got a Ford. They haven't got room
for a garage, either. Probably have to leave it out at nights."
Her sophistication was kindly in the main. She combined it with an
easy tolerance of weakness, and an invincible and cheery romanticism,
as Willy Cameron discovered the night they first went to a moving
picture theater together. She frankly wept and joyously laughed,
and now and then, delighted at catching some film subtlety and
fearful that he would miss it, she would nudge him with her elbow.
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