Had he been with a man he would have started a violent discussion on any pretext whatever.

He did not relish the oysters, the sailor's soup, the lobster, everything that another time, eaten alone or with a passing friend in the same site, would have appeared to him as delicacies.
He was looking at Freya with enigmatical eyes while, in his thought, wrath was beginning to bubble.

He almost hated her on recalling the arrogance with which she had treated him, fleeing from that room.
"Hypocrite!..." She was just amusing herself with him.

She was a playful and ferocious cat prolonging the death-agony of the mouse caught in her claws.

In his brain a brutal voice was saying, as though counseling a murder: "This will be her last day!...