"The women, oh, the women," sighed Tobacco Salesman Joseph White across his counter on Manhattan's Sixth Avenue. "They are piling into this cigaret shortage like a Sherman tank. Will they take these peculiar brands? . . . They will not. Fifteen or 20 bags of tobacco for rolling your own I sell every day. It used to be two. . . . Always there were a few women, sure, who chewed a little in a ladylike way. And in private. Now you wouldn't believe it. They sidle in here, wait till the counter is clear of customers, then ask...
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