HOME GIRL

Wilson avenue, Chicago, is not merely an avenue but a district; not only a district but a state of mind; not a state of mind alone but a condition of morals. For that matter, it is none of these things so much as a mode of existence. If you know your Chicago — which you probably don’t — (sotto voce murmur, Heaven forbid!) — you are aware that, long ago, Wilson Avenue proper crept slyly around the corner and achieved a clandestine alliance with big glittering Sheridan Road; which escapade changed the demure thoroughfare into Wilson Avenue improper.

When one says “A Wilson Avenue girl,” the mind — that is, the Chicago mind — pictures immediately a slim, daring, scented, exotic creature dressed in next week’s fashions;