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_!
Betcherlife my ma'd chinge with yours if she could."

"Would she? But Angel doesn't get on at all well here. I've heard her
telling a lady she lent some money to, and wanted to have it back, after
awhile. You see, when we were left poor, people said that she could make
lots of money in Paris, because they pay a good deal there for the
things Angel does; but others seemed to have got all the work for
themselves, before we went over to Paris to live, so some friends she
had told her it would be better to try here where there was no--no
com--com--"

"No compertishun," suggested the would-be nursery governess.

"Yes, that's the right word, I think. But there was some, after all.
Poor Angel's so sad. She doesn't quite know what we'll do next, for we
haven't much money left."

"She's got a job of char--I mean, typin' to-day anyhow," said Jane.

"Yes, she's gone to a hotel, where a gentleman talks a story out loud,
and she puts it down on paper. She's been three times; but it's so sad;
the story is a beautiful one, only she doesn't think he'll live to