“And she used to live in this house?”
“To be sure.”
“I am no longer surprised that you are so attached to your apartment.”
I angrily threw down my knife and fork and rose from the table, saying:
“Let us talk no more about it, for you will end with making me angry too. Are you ready? It is time to go to the theatre.”
“I don’t want to go.”
“And this morning you were looking forward to it. What is the meaning of this new whim?”
“It isn’t a whim; I don’t care about going to the theatre; I don’t want to go out.”
“As you please. Then I will go without you.”
I took my hat and went out, closing the door rather violently. One absolutely must vent one’s ill humor on something.