Harold. What flowers?
Anne. These—these—all of them. You sent me flowers every week while you were gone.
Harold [overcome]. Good God!
[He has now reached the apex of his amazement and becomes sardonic.]
Anne. Yes. You were extravagant with flowers, Harold. Of course I love them, but I had to scold you about spending so much money.
Harold. Spending so much money? And what did I say when you scolded me?
Anne [taken aback only for a moment by his changed attitude]. You sent me a bigger bunch than ever before—and—wait a minute—here's the card you put in it.
[She goes to the same fatal desk and produces a package of florists' cards.]
Harold. Are all those my cards too?
Anne. Yes.