"Yes, treat me like the dirt under your feet! But you can't deceive me.—Do you think I don't know why you're stopping here?"
She looked away from him, without replying.
"Do you think I don't know why you've decked yourself out like this?"
"For God's sake stop harping on my dress!"
"Why you've bedizened yourself? ... why you were going out? ... why you've spied and gaped eternally from one side of the street to the other?"
As she only continued to look away, the desire seized him to say something so incisive that the implacability of her face would have to change, no matter to what. "I'll tell you then!" he shouted, and struck the palm of one hand with the back of the other, so that the bones in both bit and stung. "I'll tell you. You're waiting here ... waiting, I say! But you'll wait to no purpose! For you've reckoned without me."
"Oh, very well, then, if it pleases you, I'm waiting! But you can at least say for what? For you perhaps?—for you to regain your senses?"
"Stop your damned sneering! Will you tell me you don't know who's—don't know he's here?"
Still she continued to overlook him. "He?—who?—what?" She flung the little words at him like stones. Yet, in the second that elapsed before his reply, a faint presentiment widened her eyes.
"You've got the audacity to ask that?" Flinging himself down on the seat, he put his hands in his pockets, and stretched out his legs. "Who but your precious Schilsky!—the man who knew how you ought to be treated ... who gave you what you deserved!"