Bazoom

“Which girl was it now?” he asks a second time. “Oh, you know, the hysteric,” Eleanor says, “the one who was parading her bazooms in your face.”

She pencils hair in, under their arms, and on their chests between the breasts. She reads out the descriptions, snorting with stied laughter: “‘Delightfully trimmed in dainty lace, with extra support for the mature gure.’ That means big bazooms. Look at this—cup sizes! Like teacups!”