Word: salesgirl
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Dates: during 1970-1979
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...saleswoman while her husband watched eagerly. She hesitated at first when the bill for her face makeup?eye shadow, foundation, mascara, liners, lip pencils?came to $42. But she gave in and paid when her husband murmured, "You really look great, honey." Then he turned to the salesgirl and asked, "Isn't she pretty?" No one who saw the light in his eyes would have to ask what the woman...
...scroll paintings and antique furniture. The attendants seem scrupulously honest. At some of the antique stores, though, the young comrades behind the counter are apt to be woefully ignorant of the objets d'art they are selling. In Wusih, a customer reasonably well versed in Chinese asks a salesgirl the exact meaning of the calligraphy on a 200-year-old wall scroll. Her hesitant reply: "Aim high to build our country," which is purest Mao. The scroll actually reproduces a philosophical poem by the Ch'ing dynasty's Tsu Shao-tseng...
Real Bitch. Still a devout Catholic. Flicka went to convent schools. At 18 she hired on as a nanny in Paris to learn French, later worked as a salesgirl at Tiffany. In those days, and even when she attended the Mannes College of Music, she was more interested in the theater than in opera. "Give me Broadway any day," she said after her first visit to the Met, and she still appreciates the artistry of Barbra Streisand, Billie Holiday and Peggy...
...concedes is "ridiculous." She is merely passing along to customers astronomical wholesale price increases on a wide variety of items; for example, an importer of bamboo magazine racks has recently doubled the price to $8. The prices are discouraging many potential buyers and Mrs. Edlund has fired her only salesgirl. Though her husband, a lawyer, "suggests every morning that I sell the store," she has no plans for throwing in the towel. "People say that if you leave your heart in San Francisco, you leave it on Union Street," she says wistfully. "Maybe they leave their hearts, but not cold...
...last year with the republication of Western classics like Thucydides and such traditional Chinese novels as The Dream of the Red Chamber and Monkey. But contemporary Chinese fiction is still appallingly banal by Western standards. At the Hsin Hua bookstore in Peking's main shopping district, I asked a salesgirl to tell me which of the recently published Chinese novels was reckoned the best. "Take your pick over there," she answered unselfconsciously. "They're all the same...