Katz, with her napkin tucked well under her third chin, turned _sotto_
from the protruding husband at her right to her left neighbor, shielding
her remark with her hand.
"Am I right, Mrs. Finshriber? I just said to my husband in the five years
we been here she should just give us once a change from Friday-night lamb
and noodles."
"Say, you should complain yet! With me it's six and a half years day after
to-morrow, Easter Day, since I asked myself that question first."
"Even my Irving says to me to-night up in the room; jumping up and down on
the hearth like he had four legs--"
"I heard him, Mrs. Katz, on my ceiling like he had eight legs."
"'Mamma,' he says, 'guess why I feel like saying "Baa."'"
"Saying what?"
"Sheep talk, Mrs. Finshriber. B-a-a, like a sheep goes."
"Oh!"
"'Cause I got so many Friday nights' lamb in me, mamma,' he said. Quick
like a flash that child is."
Mrs. Finshriber dipped her head and her glance, all her drooping features
pulled even farther down at their corners. "I ain't the one to complain,
Mrs. Katz, and I always say, when you come right down to it maybe Mrs.
Kaufman's house is as good as the next one, but--"
"I wish, though, Mrs.
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