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Updated: May 13, 2025
The sudden fear of losing her intruding itself immediately upon an ecstatic, creative mood unnerved him, yet he strove to appear confident as he stood over her. "When you've finished typewriting that, we'll go out to supper," he told her. But she shook her head. "Why not?" "I don't want to," she replied and then, to soften her refusal, she added, "I can't, to-night."
Down at the office of Skinyer and Beatem, the lawyers of the company, they were working overtime drawing up deeds and conveyances and trusts in perpetuity, with hardly time to put them into typewriting.
Braille is taught to enable the sightless to read for themselves, and typewriting in order that it will not be so hard on their friends, as it is much easier for the blind to learn to typewrite than it is for the sighted to learn to read Braille. It took me four months to master Braille, but I passed my typewriting test in less than three weeks.
On a small side-table, clean, but uncovered, the breakfast dishes, washed, but not yet put away, stood, and the kettle on the hob by the dying fire led me to infer that the typewriting woman was her own cook. I suspected that the awkward-looking sofa which partly occupied one side of the room, concealed a bed.
It is a sign of weakness for a man to knock on the door of a business office, unless it is marked private, Nevertheless, the dingy glass had known the knock of many knuckles. A girl was hammering on the typewriting machine. She ceased only when she completed the page. She looked up. Her expression, on seeing who the visitor was, changed instantly.
"Wait just a minute," directed Loring, sitting down at his typewriting machine from which the neat operator had fled at the very beginning of the social invasion. For the next two or three minutes the rapidfire click of the keys under Loring's practiced fingers drowned all other sound, and then he jerked off a paper. "Now, Johnny, you sign this," he ordered.
We must therefore make up our minds to find a woman who has a typewriting machine, and knows how to use it." "There are probably a hundred thousand such women in New York," Baker observed, gloomily. "No doubt. But we have more information than that about the person who sent these letters." "What, for instance?" asked Baker and Mrs. Morton in a breath.
And yet, to the utter amazement of them both, there lay on the floor of the room, near its center, a square white envelope, addressed in typewriting to Ruth Morton. Duvall sprang forward and seized it with an exclamation of astonishment. It bore the same seal, in the same black wax, and upon it was the same semi-circular row of indentations. He tore the letter open.
Brooklyn Bridge and Brooklyn Ferry might be the cross-roads of the world. There a vast mob is passing hither and thither, on foot, on boats, on railroads. What are they doing, whither are they going, these scurrying men and women? Have they no business to pursue, no office-stool to sit upon, no typewriting machines to jostle?
It was a singular document, this problem in letters which had come to light up the gloom of a November day for Average Jones; a stiffish sheet of paper, ornamented on one side with color prints of alluring "spinners," and on the other inscribed with an appeal, in print. Its original vehicle was an envelope, bearing a one-cent stamp, and addressed in typewriting: Mr.
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