human
Where's Ross, Miss Golden? Well, why _don't_ you know where he is? from telephone calls, and from memoes whose polite
gpt
of typewriter-carriages being shoved back. The roll of closing elevator doors, and the rumble of the ascending elevator. The long burr of an unanswered telephone at a desk, again and again; and at last an angry
human
Well! Hello? Yes, yes; this 's Mr. Jones. What-duh-yuh want? Voices mingled; a shout for Mr. Brown; the hall-attendant yelping:
gpt
Miss Golden! Where's Miss Golden? Anything for Sanford? Mr. Smith, d'you know if there's anything for Sanford?