Marie was packing a suitcase and meditating upon the scorching letter she meant to write.
Judging from the effect which the letter had upon Bud, it must have been a masterpiece of its kind.

He threw the box of chocolates into the wood-box, crawled out of the window by which he had entered, and went down town to a hotel.

If the house wasn't good enough for Marie, let her go.

He could go just as fast and as far as she could.

And if she thought he was going to hot-foot it over to her mother's and whine around and beg her to come home, she had another think coming.
He wouldn't go near the darn place again, except to get his clothes.
He'd bust up the joint, by thunder.