HOW’S YOUR FEMME?

    Sir, my femme, she is the living incarnate of all that is beautiful, in the facial contortions of a nagging housewife, in the flowing crystalline teardrop of a jilted sweetheart, in the libertine smile of a long-faced schoolgirl, in the fussy whims of a spinter, in the mystic reserve of a nightclub entertainer, and in the descriptive countenance of an empotheric clown. She walks with the breeze of a summer breeze; her beauty smacks of the illusive fragrance of the roses at dawn. Her hair is as dark as ebony, long and silken and shines with the gloss and luster of a fading gossamer. In short and simple language, she is too beautiful for words, Sir!