And the truce is over. Sonny-Jim died, Martha. My parents died 18 times. You're an even older boozing woman. Whiskey seeps out your pours, my dear.
Daddy is dead, the old rat.
There's nothing left to play but a quiet game of chess. Martha, your can take your sagging bosoms down the stairs and tell the ponds to go on home. They are NOT sagging. I'll let them in and go get more liquor. You should admire my bosoms.