Wretched is it? Take care what you say, woman! Wretched skin! A fine judge of such matters you are!—And standing up, Arni paced the kitchen floor.—An eighty-crown skin! And you call it wretched! Jon of Lon didn't call it any names. You'll believe at least what he says.
Now, don't get puffed up. You ought to be thankful to get what you can for the skin. It will help in buying the cow.
The cow? Let me tell you, woman, that I am not going to buy a cow for the skin. You can take it from me that you will never get a cow for that skin. Or anything else, in fact. The farmer at Lon can shell out whatever is needed for buying the cow. That's the least he can do for you.
Groa stopped her washing, stared for a few seconds at Arni, and then with a quick movement walked up to him, brandishing a bit of wet linen.
Will you tell me what you're going to do with the skin? she asked, almost in a whisper.
Arni shrank back. The way to the door was cut off. He raised his arm in self-defence and retreated as far as possible into the corner.
I'm going to sell it. Now be reasonable, Groa. I'm going to sell it.
And what are you going to buy for it? his wife hissed, boring into him with her eyes.
A cow. I'm going to buy a cow for it.
You lie! You know you're not going to sell it. You're going to play with it. Know your children hungering for milk and play with the skin!