"Sorry? Of course you're sorry. She slaves for you from morning till night."
"That's not my fault. I stopped her slaving and she got ill. Why, it was you—you—who made me turn her on to it again."
"Of course I did. She loves slaving for you. She'd cut herself in little pieces. She'd cook herself—deliciously—and serve herself up for your dinner if she thought you'd fancy her."
"You're right, Jinny. I never ought to have married her."
"I didn't say you never ought to have married her. I say you ought to be on your knees now you have married her. She's ten thousand times too good for you."
"You're right, Jinny. You always were right, you always will be damnably right."
"And you always will be—oh dear me—so rude."
He looked in her face like a whipped dog trying to reinstate himself in favour, as far as Tanqueray could look like a whipped dog.
"Let me carry those books for you," he said.
"You may carry the books, but I don't like you, Tanks."