It was not in her to tremble, to shudder, to hesitate, to weigh this and to balance that.

Irish curiosity.

Perhaps in the original that immortal line read: "The Irish rush in where angels fear to tread," and some proofreader had a particular grudge against the race.
When the elevator reached the seventeenth floor, the passengers surged forth.

All except Kitty, who tarried.
"We don't carry to the eighteenth, miss.
"I am Miss Conover," she replied.

"I dared not tell you until we were alone." "I see." The boy nodded, swept her with an appraising glance, and sent the elevator up to the loft.
"You understand?
If any one inquires about me, you don't remember." "Yes, miss.