Lezinsky [firmly after a moment's thought]. No, Goldie, it couldn't be done. In the spring we buy a baby-carriage.
Mrs. Lezinsky. You think she waits till spring to sell that baby-carriage? She sells it now before she moves away—now, this afternoon, I tell you.
Lezinsky. Well, we buy another carriage, then.
Mrs. Lezinsky. You don't find such a bargain again anytime. She gives it away.
Lezinsky. My eyes get much better soon—now—by the operation.
Mrs. Lezinsky. Operation! Operation! Always operations! And the baby comes. No carriage for our David and Julius to wheel her in—with our Benny at the foot—in the fresh air—and she dies on us in the heat next summer—maybe—and David and Julius and Benny—they lose their little sister.
Lezinsky. Didn't David and Julius and Benny live without a baby-carriage?
Mrs. Lezinsky. Yes, a mile to the park, maybe, and I carry them to the fresh air. And a baby-carriage for her costs five dollars. What time shall I have for that with all the extra work and my back broken? In such a baby-carriage the little sister sleeps from morning to night—on the sidewalk by the stoop; she gets fat and healthy from that baby-carriage.
Lezinsky. When I could pay for the operation, maybe—then—
Mrs. Lezinsky [despairingly]. Operations again—always operations!