"Little darling—little Phonzie darling!"
"Don't wake him, Gert."
She was reluctant to withdraw herself. "His little darling fists, so pink and curled up! Little Phonzie darling!"
He hung over each process, proud and awkward.
"Little darling—little darling—here, Phonzie help."
They transferred the burden, the child not moving on his pillow. In the shallow heart of the perambulator, the high froth of pillows about him, he lay like a bud, his soft profile against the lace, and his skin like the innermost petal of a rose.
"Phonzie, ain't he—ain't he the softest little darling! Gawd! how—how she'll love to—to be wheeling him!"
His fingers fumbled with excitement and fell to strapping and buckling with a great show and a great ineffectually.
"Here, help me let down the glass top."
"'Sh-h-h-h! Every word carries in this flat."