DOCTOR: Breast fed, of course?
FEMALE: Ye bleatin' image! 'Oo the 'ell you think you are?
DOCTOR: Breast fed, of course?
FEMALE (weeping wildly): Me starve my baby? Ow, ow, ow, ow!
DOCTOR: Breast fed, of course?
FEMALE: Ow, ow—why cert'nly 'e's breast fed! 'Ow else d'ye think a pore workin' woman's goin' ter manage? And 'im not five months old. And one of yere own deliveries. Cert'nly e's breast fed.
DOCTOR: That's the trouble, you see. No baby can be nourished on gin and stout. He's starving, I tell you.
FEMALE: And I tell ye it's a dirty lie. I'm for ever feedin' 'im. 'E's for ever worryin'. Sich a happetite this little beggar's got. Warra mean, me starve 'im? Warra mean, yere gin and beer? I suckle the little dear meself.
DOCTOR: And what do you feed yourself on?
FEMALE: That's my business, ain't it?