MRS. BRAMSON: So that's the game. Wouldn't think butter would melt in her mouth…. You'll have to go, of course; I can't have that sort of thing in this house—and stop squeaking! You'll bring my heart on again. It's all this modern life. I've always said so. All these films and rubbish.
OLIVIA: My dear auntie, you can't have a baby by just sitting in the pictures.
MRS. BRAMSON: Go away, and don't interfere.
OLIVIA goes to the left window. DORA _rises.
(Triumphantly_) So you're going to have a child. When?
DORA (sniffling): Last August Bank Holiday….
MRS. BRAMSON: What?… Oh!
DORA: I 'aven't got a penny only what I earn—and if I lose my job 'ere—
MRS. BRAMSON: He'll have to marry you.
DORA: Oh, I don't think he's keen….