Some of the words were plain, man-sized swearing, if she were any judge of language.

It occurred to her that she really ought to go and find that peroxide, but she could not forego the pleasure of irritating this man.
"I always supposed that fat men were essentially; sweet-tempered," she observed to the world in general, when the mutterings ceased for a moment.
"Gee! I'd like to make that," Pete Lowry said in an undertone to his assistant.
Jean did not know that he referred to herself and the unstudied picture she made, sitting there with her hat pushed back, and the little bird blinking at her from between her cupped palms.

But she looked at him curiously, with an impulse to ask questions about what he was doing with that queer-looking camera, and how he could inject motion into photography.

While she watched, he drew out a narrow, gray strip of film and made mysterious markings upon it with the pencil, which he afterwards thrust absent-mindedly behind his ear.

He closed a small door in the side of the camera, placed his palm over the lens and turned the little crank several times around.