She has decided
to write that book."
"Good girl!" cried Leopold, sitting bolt upright upon the lounge. "I
mean, good boy, for it was, no doubt, your acknowledged powers of
argument and gently persuasive ways that have secured this consummation
of my desire. Let me think;" and he scratched his head vigorously. "I
think I have it," said he, finally. "One of our girls down to the office
worked so hard during our late splurge that the doctor told her she must
rest this week. She rooms over on Myrtle Street. I happened to be late
in getting out one day last week, and we walked together up as far as
Chestnut Street. She lives nearly down to the end of Myrtle Street."
"No further explanation or extenuation is necessary," said Quincy. "Is
she pretty?"
"You're right, she is," replied Leopold, "She's both pretty and smart.
She has a beautiful voice and writes a hand that looks like copperplate.
She's a first-class proof reader and a perfect walking dictionary on
spelling, definitions, and dates. They treat her mighty shabby on pay,
though. She's a woman, so they gave her six dollars a week.
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