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"Say, now, listen, mother if you do stenography an' typewritin', what makes your apron so wet an' dirty, nights when you come home?" "Don't you s'pose I clean my machine before I leave? What kinder typewriter d'you think I am? To leave my machine dirty, when a good scrub-down, with a pail o' hot water, an' a stiff brush, an' Sapolio, would put it in fine shape for the next mornin'."
She wouldn't 'a' been strong enough. No, siree; she didn't have far to come, folks. An' she was a woman, 'cause ain't all typewritin' done by women? You don't hear of men typewriters, do you? People wouldn't have 'em. Now, the thing fer me to do first is to make a house-to-house search to see if I c'n locate a typewritin' machine anywheres. Get out of the way, Toby.
For a moment there was no answer, then Claire recognized Martha's voice, with what was, undeniably, a chuckle tucked away in its mellow depths, where no mere, literal child would be apt to discern it. "Stenography an' typewritin'!" "Are you a stenographer an' typewriter, mother? Honest?" "Well, you can take it from me, if I was it at all, I'd be it honest.
I 'aven't got any father, no more'n you 'ave, so I can feel fur you. Your ma 'as to do typewritin'. Mine does charrin'. It's much the sime thing." "Is it?" asked Rosemary. "Angel doesn't like typewriting so very well. It makes her shoulder ache, but it isn't that she minds. It's not having enough work to do." "Bless your hinnercent 'eart, charrin' mikes you ache all over!
From the foreside of the bulkhead came an uninterrupted hammering and clinking, and now and then a hiss of steam. "That's Mr. Hinchcliffe," said Pyecroft. "He's what is called a first- class engine-room artificer. If you hand 'im a drum of oil an' leave 'im alone, he can coax a stolen bicycle to do typewritin'." Very leisurely, at the end of his first pipe, Mr.
She was just plain Miss Morgan, that had come on with her mother from Kansas City, or Omaha, or somewhere out there; put in six or eight months in a swell dressmaker's shop; learned how to make herself the kind of clothes that look like ready money; shuffled off her corn-belt accent; and then broke into the typewritin' game while she waited for somethin' better to turn up.
I 'avent got any father, no more'n you 'ave, so I can feel fur you. Your ma 'as to do typewritin'. Mine does charrin'. It's much the sime thing." "Is it?" asked Rosemary. "Angel doesn't like typewriting so very well. It makes her shoulder ache, but it isn't that she minds. It's not having enough work to do." "Bless your hinnercent 'eart, charrin' mikes you ache all over!
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