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Updated: June 7, 2025
He had started to his feet indignantly at the opening of the door, like a lion bearded in its den, but calm had returned when he saw who the intruder was. "Yes, here I am!" Miss Winch dropped despairingly into a swivel-chair, and endeavoured to restore herself with a stick of chewing-gum.
She was far too pretty for that, of course, and Arthur Chamberlain often longed to tell her how pretty she really was, but her abstracted air held him at arms' length. He lay back at ease in his swivel-chair and considered, looking at her with unfeigned pleasure.
He jerked open a drawer of the "gum-shoe" desk, flung the letter inside where I found it accidentally one day some weeks afterward and dropping into the swivel-chair laid his feet on the "gum-shoe" blotter and a moment later seemed to have fallen asleep. By all of which signs those of us who knew him began to suspect that the Corporal had something on his mind.
Then, with startling suddenness, Mrs. Porter whirled round on the swivel-chair, tilted it back, and faced him. "Well, Bailey?" she said. She looked at Bailey. Bailey looked at her. Her eyes had the curious effect of driving out of his head what he had intended to say. "Well?" she said again. He tried to remember the excellent opening speech which he had prepared in the cab.
"Goodness gracious, Crittenden," she cried irritably, "don't you know what time of night it " She broke off abruptly as Mr. Smilk, with a great clatter, yanked his remaining foot from the drawer and arose, overturning the swivel-chair in his haste. "Well, for the love of " oozed from his gaping mouth. Suddenly he turned his face away and hunched one shoulder up as a sort of shield.
The furniture was strong and plain. At the window, on a swivel-chair before a roll-top desk, Mrs. Porter sat writing, her back to the door. "The gentleman, ma'am," announced the maid. "Sit down," said his aunt, without looking round or ceasing to write. The maid went out. Bailey sat down. The gentle squeak of the quill pen continued. Bailey coughed. "I have called this morning "
Maida stood for a long time at the window listening to a parrot who called at intervals from somewhere in the neighborhood. “Get up, you sleepy-heads! Get up! Get up!” A huge puddle stretched across Primrose Court. When Maida took her place in the swivel-chair, three children had begun already to float shingles across its muddy expanse.
That is why he brings his obituaries to us; that is why he does us the honour of borrowing papers from us; and that is why, on a dull afternoon, he likes to sit in the old sway-back swivel-chair and tell us his theory of the increase in the rainfall, his notion about the influence of trees upon the hot winds, his opinion of the disappearance of the grasshoppers.
At the end of the room, lighted by the wide windows, was a long desk which was really a writer's assembly line, with typewriter, reference-books, stacks of notes and manuscripts, and a big dictionary on a stand beside a comfortable swivel-chair. "What are you writing?" Rand asked. "Science-fiction. I do a lot of stories for the pulps," Pierre told him.
He leaned back in his swivel-chair, and stared hard at the ceiling. Coolidge made an exclamation of displeasure and got to his feet. "If you don't care to take me seriously " he began.
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