The young mother cast a commiserating eye.
"I'd hate to tell you what it sounds like about two P.X. I've been on a visit to my mother in Brooklyn, but he yelled so of nights the whole flat was kicking. You ain't, by any chance, taking the two-five St. Louis Limited, are you? Brazil, Indiana, is mine."
"I—don't know—yet."
"Ever been there?"
"Where?"
"Brazil."
"I've passed through."
"Some dump, believe me. I keep saying to him, 'Keep me out here much longer, Fred, and you'll have to ship me home in a wooden kimono.'"
"Wooden kimono?"
"Coffin. Get me?"