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Saturday's Child by Kathleen Thompson Norris
page 14 of 661 (02%)

"Yes, I would," answered her fellow-conspirator, as she turned away.

The hour droned by. Boys came with bills, and went away again.
Sudden sharp pangs began to assert themselves in Susan's stomach. An
odor of burning rubber drifted up from below, as it always drifted
up at about this time. Susan announced that she was starving.

"It's not more than half-past eleven," said Miss Cottle, screwing
her body about, so that she could look down through the glass walls
of the office to the clock, on the main floor below. "Why, my
heavens! It's twelve o'clock!" she announced amazedly, throwing down
her pen, and stretching in her chair.

And, in instant confirmation of the fact, a whistle sounded shrilly
outside, followed by a dozen more whistles, high and low, constant
and intermittent, sharp on the silent noon air. The girls all jumped
up, except Miss Wrenn, who liked to assume that the noon hour meant
nothing to her, and who often finished a bill or two after the hour
struck.

But among the others, ledgers were slammed shut, desk drawers jerked
open, lights snapped out. Miss Thornton had disappeared ten minutes
before in the direction of the lunch-room; now all the others
followed, yawning, cramped, talkative.

They settled noisily about the table, and opened their lunches. A
joyous confusion of talk rose above the clinking of spoons and
plates, as the heavy cups of steaming tea were passed and the sugar-
bowl went the rounds; there was no milk, and no girl at Hunter,
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