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FLAMING

YOUTH

At the last word she assumed an expression of distrust. “How much work?” “Two hours a day, perhaps.” “Two hours a day! For how long?” “A year of it would give you a start.” “Two whole hours out of every day for a year? What do you take me for; a machine?” Scott’s nerves quivered with the strident rasp of the voice, like the squawk of a dismayed and indignant hen. “Why, I wouldn’t have any time for anything else.” “Some days have as much as twenty-four hours in them,” he pointed out. ‘However, you might make a start with an hour.” “T might,” she admitted dubiously, “while I’m in school.

But when I get out I want to have some fun. And I’m going to.” So, it seems this influence which I am supposed to have over you doesn’t go very far.” “Now youre disgusted with me again. But I can’t help it. I’m not going to be a slave just to be able to sing a little.” “It might be more than a little. And it seems to be the one quality you have which might be susceptible of development.” “Now you’re talking like a school teacher. And you’re not too flattering, are you? Don’t you think I’ve got any brains?” “Yes. But I don’t think you’re going to find them of much use.” “I suppose you’d like me to go to college,” said Pat contemptuously, “and learn the college cheer and how to play basketball.” “You might even learn more than that. However, if