For months we've been visiting the same raw-silk skirt, petting it, fondling it, hiding it in the back of the rack, fearful some foul wench—clearly less deserving but, alas, better compensated—will rip it from our feeble grasp. To drop in, of course, requires enduring the disdainful eye of the contemptuous shopclerk—that immaculately-coiffed, emaciated Skeletor who undeservedly gets everything half off; who's working... More >>>