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Henry in a noisy bar, talking with an Irish lady about her
six children, three dead (in heaven she hopes), one in a mental hospital, three
of them married. This gets Henry thinking about his child: “I do love that
baby.” All about children, having children, parenting. No Faustian “Thou shalt
not love” today. “Working & children & pals are the point of the thing.”
Really? Okay. The sight of a four-year-old daughter on the
floor “doing her coloring & her scissoring” will do that to a fella, I
suspect. No grand ambition, no fatuous fawning for fame, no decrepit body, no
river of ethanol. Nothing of damnation, ambition, decline. “Of babies I have
loved I declare I rejoice / chiefly in Paul & Martha, called Twissy-Pits.”
Kate got cross, pal Jimmy came over, rocking of pretty
little Martha, old Jane tells her story. Life, for a change.
Yeah, I'll bet Kate got cross. Place your bets B showed up with Jerry at all hours, and a few more gin/vermouths in him.
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