I decided to splash out on a new copy. Or, at any rate, a used one. I hit the Strand the other day with this in mind, and of course they didn't have it (although I did get this swell new cookbook, Eric Kayser's Tarts) and it was filled with teenage litterati. Since I was eager to jump into my self-improvement campaign, I bit the bullet and hied me away to the Court Street Barnes and Noble. I was then faced with the choice of a really nice Penguin edition with a Winslow Homer painting on the cover, and the crummy, salmon-pink house paperback from the "Classics" table, that looks like it's for assigned summer reading. The price differential was five bucks, and the choice was clear. I took my crappy copy to the front of the store.
While I was on line for the register, a group of fratty guys materialized behind me, and one of them started talking on the phone very audibly, while his friends all stood around sniggering.
"Yeah, there's this chick in front of me in line," he said, "and she's running around the store in this weird little dress (