“Where then, in the name of all the devils in Lucifram, do you intend to go to?”
“I thought when people knew I had miraculously come by a tongue they would—”
“Ah! I thought as much. You want to behave with all the absurdity of a hen that has laid an egg.”
“Indeed!” said Rosalie, flushing.
“You want to get out just to cackle.”
She was silent.
“You admit it?”
“I admit nothing but your want of manners.”
“What a waspish, vinegarish tongue yours is.”
“It’s the fault of the doctor, then. If one cannot produce a sweet instrument one might as well admit oneself a failure.”