human
My children--bauch-- He all but spat upon their names.
gpt
Morty--moons around reading Socialist books, with a cold in his throat and dishwater in his brains. And the other, she's married a dirty traitor and stands by him against her own flesh and blood. Ba-a-a-ch!
human
I married four women to give those children a home--and what thanks do I get? Ingrates--one a milk-sop--God, if he'd only be a Socialist and get out and throw dynamite; but he won't; he won't do a thing but sit around drooling about social justice when I want to eat my meals in peace. And he goes coughing all day and night, and grunting, and now he's wearing a pointed beard--he says it's for his throat, but I know--it's because he thinks it's romantic. And that Anne--why, she's worse,