You are a lot of horrid old things. I ask you to come here to sympathise with me, and you’re perfectly brutal to me.
Barlow.
My dear Penelope, there are limits.
Penelope.
Well, I don’t care; I’m going to divorce him.
Golightly.
Let’s do another little simple addition, shall we? Perhaps two and two will make four a second time.
Penelope.
I don’t know that I much like being a mathematician’s daughter.
Golightly.