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Updated: May 13, 2025
Glorious independence! No wonder that hundreds of girls are willing to accept the first offer of marriage, sick and tired of their "independence" behind the counter, at the sewing or typewriting machine. They are just as ready to marry as girls of the middle class, who long to throw off the yoke of parental supremacy.
My manuscripts made amazing round-trip records between the Pacific and the Atlantic. It might have been the weirdness of the typewriting that prevented the editors from accepting at least one little offering of mine. I don't know, and goodness knows the stuff I wrote was as weird as its typing. I sold my hard-bought school books for ridiculous sums to second-hand bookmen.
The way in which she discovers the right thing to do! You are to call upon her as soon as possible. This very after noon you had better go. She will relieve you from all your troubles darling. Her friend, Miss Barfoot, will teach you typewriting, and put you in the way of earning an easy and pleasant livelihood. She will, indeed! 'But how long does it take? asked the astonished girl.
About ten days after admission she said, “What any one says goes right through my brain,” or she talked of being hypnotized. “The typewriting machine turned my eyes three or four girls turned my eyes they look at me and get their chance, their left eye turning me into images.
"Then you'll stay and look after them for a little while longer, anyway? I may tell Miss Temple that, may I?" "You can tell who you like. I shall not mention leaving until Miss Ethel is better," said Caroline. "Good girl! And I won't forget the typewriting machine," he answered. "One good turn deserves another. That sounds like Miss Panton, doesn't it?" And with that he hurried out of the kitchen.
She never talked much herself, but she knew all the gossip of the town and she had a sharp ear for racy anecdotes "traveling men's stories," they used to be called in Moonstone. Her clicking laugh sounded like a typewriting machine in action, and, for very pointed stories, she had a little screech. Mrs. Archie had been Mrs.
"Right!" said Mr. Marrier. "Strike!" "Don't strike!" contradicted Carlo Trent. "Strike, I tell you! We must get on with the second act." The voices resounded queerly in the empty theatre. The stage was invaded by scene-shifters before the curtain could descend again. Edward Henry heard a tripping step behind him. It was the faithful typewriting girl. "I say," he said.
There had been girls in the country place where they lived, girls of the best old families, too, who, feeling the pinch of poverty that followed the changed conditions of the South after the war, had gone away to teach school or learn typewriting.
"She works as far as I can understand," said the loquacious landlady, "with a certain Mr. Kara in the typewriting line. She came to me four months ago." "Never mind when she came to you," said T. X. impatiently. "Have you a message from the lady?" "Well, it's like this, sir," said Mrs.
He learned from her that she had met a lady at the typewriting school where Miss Lamb was a substitute teacher, and Miss Lamb had really referred the lady to our hero upon gaining her confidence, and having learned that she had need of a detective in a very delicate affair, the nature of which had not been revealed to Miss Lamb.
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