My brain could formulate no sound opinion. To have felt all the force of indignation, and wallowed in every ounce of immense resentment and aggravation and wrath and exasperation, one must know not what to think.
“I would not have heard of that idea on the general occasion,” murmured my boisterous disposition unsolicitedly, as it often would, though the deed was not to be had. With impatient activity did I—mentally—shot it a sidelong glance before its half whisper was put aside and forgotten eventually.
Whatever bears affinity to non compos mentis is undignified, that in spite of my deigning to grimace in absolute repugnance, I had no disinclination for it at that moment because if it must be so, it must. That includes a morning passed chiefly between abominable tourists with satirical eyes and an oppressive summer sun.
“Who are they to behave so superciliously, proudly, and haughtily?” I cried.
“Impertinent assholes,” justified the voice.
“Good heavens! I am much mistaken if there are not some people in the world, if not all, to whom the pairs of old but petulant couples, or those three twin-lens reflex photographer wannabes, or that woman with hideous axillary hair, or those finicky yet impudent patrons are not deemed to be very conceited and arrogant! Even Jane Bennet must abhor every single one of them so!”
“Look up,” the reply was curt.
For some time, I suspended the meditation to shot-put spontaneously combusted durians into their faces, then cordially welcome intimate acquaintances to watch the spectacular pantomime, while I elegantly sip juleps or mimosas underneath a parasol, for the view was majestic.
“Thank you,” I uttered, taking note to be equally terse in my speech, and gaily scampered away.