"You've got to explain."
"That's what I came for." He smiled pleasantly.
"Well?" She tapped her foot.
"Don't rush me, Doc. I have so few pleasures, you know that, and the enjoyment I'm extracting from your suspense makes me desire to prolong it. You are anxious, you must admit that, although you really conceal it very well. But you're gray around the mouth and those lines from your nose down look like—yes, like irrigation laterals—furrows—upon my soul, Doc, you've grown ten years older since I came in. You should avoid worry by all means, but I can understand exactly how you feel when you're not quite sure to which case I may refer."
Her tense nerves seemed suddenly to snap. She struck the desk with her open palm, and cried—
"I'm sick of this!"
He looked at her critically.
"I can believe it. Temper adds nothing to your appearance. But, Doc, with your intelligence and experience, how did you come to rifle a man's pocket with a witness in the room?"
She jumped to her feet.
"I won't stand this! I don't have to stand it!"