[Again a pause, while MRS. LEMMY sees herself doing nothing.]
LEMMY. Tell abaht Jim; old lydy.
MRS. L. My son Jim 'ad a family o' seven in six years. "I don' know
'ow 'tes, Mother," 'e used to say to me; "they just sim to come!"
That was Jim--never knu from day to day what was cumin'. "Therr's
another of 'em dead," 'e used to say, "'tes funny, tu" "Well," I
used to say to 'im; "no wonder, poor little things, livin' in they
model dwellin's. Therr's no air for 'em," I used to say. "Well," 'e
used to say, "what can I du, Mother? Can't afford to live in Park
Lane:" An' 'e take an' went to Ameriky. [Her voice for the first
time is truly doleful] An' never came back. Fine feller. So that's
my four sons--One's dead, an' one's in--That, an' one's in Ameriky,
an' Bob 'ere, poor boy, 'e always was a talker.
[LEMMY, who has re-seated himself in the window and taken up his
fiddle, twangs the strings.]
PRESS. And now a few words about your work, Mrs. Lemmy?
MRS. L. Well, I sews.
PRESS. [Writing] "Sews." Yes?
MRS. L. [Holding up her unfinished pair of trousers] I putt in the
button'oles, I stretches the flies, I lines the crutch, I putt on
this bindin', [She holds up the calico that binds the top] I sews on
the buttons, I press the seams--Tuppence three farthin's the pair.
PRESS. Twopence three farthings a pair! Worse than a penny a line!
MRS.
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