"Oh, I could not really settle it without—without—thinking."
"Yes, you can, and must."
"But I don't know how long that is."
"It is exactly three weeks from now."
"But why the thirteenth?"
"We must appoint some date, and that is when my book appears in Paris, that's all; but choose another, if you like."
"The thirteenth is unlucky."
"What do you gain by all this trifling, Lucia?"
Some slight accent of all the angry surge of feelings within me crept, perhaps, into my tone. She did not answer, but began to cry again, not passionately this time, but in a weak, enervated listlessness.
"You are most unkind, Victor!"