His one lung (sounds kinder Chineesy,
don't it?), his one lung ain't no worse--it's better some--only he keeps
losin' flesh an' that puzzles'm."
"Do you think he is contented there?"
"He says he is. He says it's the grand place, an' they're all as good
to'm as if he was the king o' Harlem. _You_ seen to that, sir--he says.
An' Sam, he's always pationate, no matter what comes, but--"
"Well--_but_?"
"But--only just, it ain't _home_, you know, sir!"
"I see. And the doctors think he ought to stay up there? Not return
home--_here_, I mean?"
"That's what they say."
"Have you--the means to keep him at the Sanatorium over the five months
we settled for in January?"
"No, sir. That is, not--not _yet_."
"Would you like to borrow enough money to see him through the rest of
the year?"
Martha deliberated. "I may _have_ to, sir," she said at last with a
visible effort. "But I don't like to borrer. I notice when folks gets
the borrerin'-habit they're slow payin' back, an' then you don't get
thanks for a gift or you don't get credit for a loan.
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