His perception cannot possibly be so dull as yours, Christian
Gregorovitch, my little husband."
Akulina paused for breath after her tremendous invective, which, indeed,
was only intended by her for the preface of the real discourse, so fertile
was her imagination and so thoroughly roused was her eloquence by the
sense of injury received. While she was speaking, Fischelowitz, whose
terror of his larger half was only relative, had calmly risen and had
wound up the "Wiener Gigerl" to the extreme of the doll's powers, placing
it on the counter before him and sitting down before it in anticipation of
the amusement he expected to derive from its performance. In the short
silence which ensued while Akulina was resting her lungs for a second and
more deadly effort, the wretched little musical box made itself heard,
clicking and scratching and grinding out a miserable little polka. At the
sound, the sunny smile returned to the tobacconist's face. He knew that no
earthly eloquence, no scathing wit, no brutal reply could possibly
exasperate his wife as this must. He resented everything she had said, and
in his vulgar way he was ashamed that she should have said it before the
Count, and now he was glad that by the mere turning of a key he could
answer her storm of words in a way to drive her to fury, while at the same
time showing his own indifference. As for the Count himself, he had moved
nearer to the door and was looking quietly out into the irregularly
lighted street, smoking as though he had not heard a word of what had been
said.
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