“You brute. You have cut open my head!” cried his wife.
“Now unbosom yourself,” said he to the curate in a quiet manner. The latter looked at him for some time. Afterward he asked, in that nasal and monotonous priest’s voice:
“Did you see how I came running?”
“Umph! I thought something was the matter with you.”
“When I leave my duties in this manner there are grave motives.”
“And what is it?” asked the other, stamping his foot on the floor.
“Calm yourself!”
“Then, why did you come in such a hurry?”
The curate approached him and asked in a mysterious way:
“Don’t—you—know—anything—new?”