Von Rettenmayer.
Following her. Nod?
Enid.
It’s rest I’m yearning for—my holiday!—rest for my weary bones. Turning to him without a sign of disturbance. Karl, I’m simply bursting with rage.
Von Rettenmayer.
Rage?
Enid.
That wretched hotel at Ostend—the Plage! They’ve the confounded impudence to ask me a hundred-and-twenty-five francs a day for two cubby-holes on the third floor, for my aunt and me.
Von Rettenmayer.
Monsdrous. With a shrug. But Ostend is—Ostend.