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Updated: July 7, 2025
"There is a rehearsal called for the ensemble at when is it, Rolie?" "Eleven o'clock, day after tomorrow, at Bryant Hall." "I'll be there," said Jill. "Good-bye, and thank you very much." The silence which had fallen upon the room as she left it, was broken by Mr Trevis. "Some pip!" observed Mr Trevis. Otis Pilkington awoke from day-dreams with a start. "What did you say?"
The precious minutes that belonged to his employers and should have been earmarked for "The Rose of America" flitted by. The ladies and gentlemen of the ensemble, who should have been absorbing and learning to deliver the melodies of Roland Trevis and the lyrics of Otis Pilkington, lolled back in their seats. The yellow-keyed piano rocked beneath an unprecedented onslaught.
"That girl . . . I said she was some pippin!" "Miss Mariner," said Mr Pilkington icily, "is a most charming, refined, cultured, and vivacious girl, if you mean that." "Yes," said Mr Trevis. "That was what I meant!" Jill walked out into Forty-second Street, looking about her with the eye of a conqueror.
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