A number of combatants were college-age women in flat sandals and black toenails, usually deployed in ruthless teams of two or three. Some were Asian with Pucci newsboy caps; some arrived with identically dressed mothers. Husbands were few. Most know better than to get caught in this frenzy. I did catch one luckless wretch, wholly abandoned, sitting in the middle of a blast zone of discards. In a daze, he fingered a strappy orange Givenchy platform lying next to him, tipped it over to squint at the price, then shook his head in existential bewilderment, as if this, finally, was the cracking point of his spirit.