“What's gettin' hold of you? You're trying to thrash me because I am making this child eat soup when you are filling him with sweet stuff!”
He kept repeating, trembling from head to foot:
“Out! Get out-get out, you brute!”
Then, wild, she turned to him and, pushing her face up against his, her voice trembling:
“Ah!—you think-you think that you can treat me like that? Oh! no. And for whom?—for that brat who is not even yours. No, not yours! No, not yours—not yours! Everybody knows it, except yourself! Ask the grocer, the butcher, the baker, all of them, any one of them!”
She was growling and mumbling, choked with passion; then she stopped and looked at him.
He was motionless livid, his arms hanging by his sides. After a short pause, he murmured in a faint, shaky voice, instinct with deep feeling:
“You say? you say? What do you say?”
She remained silent, frightened by his appearance. Once more he stepped forward, repeating:
“You say—what do you say?”