"What feeling," He exclaimed, when he read the diary. Fingers to my throat, I was nonplussed. Here was Mister George Albert Morrison, his plump piggy fingers on my diary, no doubt ready to publish them. Under the title "Confessions of an Underage Showgirl" - his publishing house was known for their lurid merchandise like "Woman Commandoes" and "Atomic Sex Balm." It didn't matter what the book was about, as long as the cover was provocative enough.
"Why, Mister Morrison! Do you really think so?"
Mister George Albert Morrison touched the brim of his wide hat. "Miss Peggy, you are surely an unconventional woman." But what did this mean? I bit my lip and took a long, refreshing sip of my unsweetened ice tea. Unconventional? Was that a compliment or an insult?