What she said was: "Linda's working on her car.

Go around to the left and you will find her in the garage, and for heaven's sake, get it right before you let her start out, for we've had enough horror in this family from motor accidents." Then she closed the door before him and stood buttoning her gloves; a wicked and malicious smile spreading over her face.
"Just possibly," she said, "that youngster is from a garage, but if he is, he's the best imitation of the real thing that I have seen in these chaotic days." Donald Whiting stopped at the garage door and looked in, before Linda had finished her grease cups, and in time to be informed that he might wear common-sense shoes if he chose.

At his step, Linda rolled her black head on the cement floor and raised her eyes.

She dropped the grease cup, and her face reddened deeply.
"Oh, my Lord!" she gasped breathlessly.

"I forgot to tell Katy when to call me!" In that instant she also forgot that the stress of the previous four years had accustomed men to seeing women do any kind of work in any kind of costume; but soon Linda realized that Donald Whiting was not paying any particular attention either to her or to her occupation.