Dorothy was laughing.
"What—what's this? What are you laughing at? Is it p-p-possible that you dare to laugh? What on earth do you mean by it?"
This laughter frightened him as a threat of danger? The slut! What was she laughing at? A sudden fury rose in him, and setting her down clumsily against a tree, he struck her with his clenched fist, out of which a ring stuck, on the forehead, among her hair, with such force that the blood spurted out.
She was still laughing, as she stammered:
"You b-b-brute! What a brute you are!"
"If you laugh, I'll bite your mouth, you hussy," he snarled, bending over her red lips.
He did not dare to carry out the threat, respecting her in spite of himself, and even a little intimidated. She was frightened, however, and laughed no more.
"What is this? What is it?" he repeated. "You should be crying, and you're laughing. Why?"
"I was laughing because of the plates," she said.
"What plates?"