How nice.

The little bowl pipe sat untouched but much viewed. Sylvia had said his breath smelt like mole rats were living in his beard, she suggested it might be the tobacco. He said perhaps it was the tobacco. It certainly wasn’t her beef stew.

Sylvia said he needed to be less sarcastic, you bastard. He said he was being sincere! They were in the parlor. She picked up a plate from the silver-edged set his parents had bestowed unto them as a wedding present, and with athletic vigor launched the missile in the air in the vague direction of his person.