They knew them not, had no acquaintances among them.

It did not matter whether the festival were Irish, German, or Slavonian; whether the picnic was the Bricklayers', the Brewers', or the Butchers'.

They, the girls, were of the dancing crowd that swelled by a certain constant percentage the gate receipts of all the picnics.
They strolled about among the booths where peanuts were grinding and popcorn was roasting in preparation for the day, and went on and inspected the dance floor of the pavilion.

Saxon, clinging to an imaginary partner, essayed a few steps of the dip-waltz.

Mary clapped her hands.
"My!" she cried.