He got up brusquely. But he was now too deeply moved to trace a certain unsatisfactoriness to its source in a mixture of metaphors. I—well, I lost my temper. ‘It does not matter, Jacques. “Don’t you understand? It is I whom you cared for in Paris, not Anna. “You are talking like a boy. That terrible laughter, just before his senses had left him! Why? Here was a word that volleyed at her from all directions, numbed and bewildered her: the multiple echoes of her own first utterance of the word. His natal burr was always in evidence when he was sentimentally affected. Do you know, Annabel, that you are my wife. "I was right," replied Jack, returning as coolly as if nothing had happened.
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