“Ain’t it lovely?” she was whispering.
“The two boobs in the love story?”
“Not them so much—but the music!”
“Pretty good.”
“Nice an’ dreamy, ain’t it?”
“Yes—sounds as though the guy was playing for us.”
Erna gave him a reproving nudge, and he laughed. They listened and watched in silence. But he grew impatient. “Don’t care for the story, do you?”
“Sure! What’s the matter with it?”
“Them two boobs gimme a pain.”
“Why?”