“You little liar.”
Mother had gone out of the room for her recipe book.
He sat on his chair dumb with mortification. She stitched swiftly and unerringly. There was silence for some moments. Then he spoke:
“I did not know you wanted me for the pleasure of plucking this crow,” he said.
“I wanted you!” she exclaimed, looking up for the first time, “Who said I wanted you?”
“No one. If you didn’t want me I may as well go.”
The sound of stitching alone broke the silence for some moments, then she said deliberately:
“What made you think I wanted you?”
“I don’t care a damn whether you wanted me or whether you didn’t.”
“It seems to upset you! And don’t use bad language. It is the privilege of those near and dear to one.”