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She pointed belligerently at her tormentor with the hand that held the brush. "Being the scrub-lady's stalwart son, you wouldn't understand. But I can write. I sha'n't go under. I'm going to make this town count me in as the four million and oneth.
"I presume that you are the janitor's beautiful daughter," growled the collarless man. "Well, not precisely," answered Mary Louise, sweetly. "Are you the scrub-lady's stalwart son?" "Ha!" exploded the man. "But then, all women look alike with their hair down. I ask your pardon, though." "Not at all," replied Mary Louise. "For that matter, all men look like picked chickens with their collars off."
"Give me five minutes more," grinned the keen-eyed young man, "and I'll tell you what make your typewriter is, and where the last rejection slip came from." "Oh!" said Mary Louise again. "Then you are the scrub-lady's stalwart son, and you've been ransacking my waste-basket." And back home what did you do?" "Back home I taught school and hated it.
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