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Updated: May 4, 2025
Even the ultra-respectable "Evening Transcript", organ of the Brahmins of culture, was down for $144 for typing, mimeographing and sending out "dope" to the country press.
"Well," he continued presently, in a perfectly matter-of-fact tone, "I've found you now, and you've got to be sensible. It's true I've had a stroke of luck, but that might fall away at any moment. I've typing waiting for you, or I can get you a post at the New York Theatre. You'd better first do my typing. I'll have it in your rooms to-morrow morning by nine o'clock.
But, timorous or not, she had to see him; she would never let him go, now that he had made her care for him. Walter was not in sight when she entered the offices, and she was instantly swept into the routine. Not clasping hands beguiled her, but lists to copy, typing errors to erase, and the irritating adjustment of a shift-key which fiendishly kept falling. For two hours she did not see him.
She fell to typing again with even more energy than before, if that were possible, while he it must be confessed that before he laid the verses away between the pages for another fifty years' sleep he had made note of their identity, that he might look them up again in a seldom opened copy of the English poet on his shelves at home. They belonged to him now!
"Every one likes it," she remarked. "Such a time I had choosing the furniture. Hester wouldn't help with a single thing. You know that she has left me?" "I understood that she had gone to Mr. Mannering as secretary," he answered. "She has done typing for him for some time, hasn't she?" Mrs. Phillimore nodded. "Worships him, the little fool!" she remarked. "I must admit I detest clever men.
He did not mean to be trampled upon. But Roberta finished her oiling in silence and again applied herself to her typing with redoubled energy. He went at his abstract, suddenly furious with himself. He would show her that he could work as persistently as she. He could not pretend to himself that she was not absorbed.
Troy Wilkins, while pretending to be absent-mindedly fussing about a correspondence-file that morning, had forgotten that he was much married and had peered at the V. Una knew it, and the sordidness of that curiosity so embarrassed her that she stopped typing to clutch at the throat of her own high-necked blouse, her heart throbbing. She wanted to run away.
"Typing takes time," replied Jaffery serenely. "And I'm not an advocate of feather-beds and rose-water baths for printers. As I wanted to rush the book out as quickly as possible, I didn't see why I should pamper them with type. Have you the original manuscript of 'The Diamond Gate'?" "No," said Doria. "Well don't you see?" said Jaffery, with a smile.
In the exultation of his good luck, Banneker felt a stir of helpfulness toward this helpless person. "Oh!" said he. "How do you do! Could you find time to do some typing for me quite soon?" It was said impulsively and was followed by a surge of dismay. Typing? Type what? He had absolutely nothing on hand! Well, he must get up something. At once.
"You don't realise what a vivid imagination you have got. When I was typing that last story of yours, I was simply astounded at the ideas you had thought of. I remember saying so to uncle Peter. You can't expect to have a wonderful imagination like yours and not imagine things, can you?" Mrs. Pett smiled demurely. She looked hopefully at her niece, waiting for more, but Ann had said her say.
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