I will get along.

I wish you wouldn't talk to me." She shoved her plate away with such force that she upset a glass in which was champagne, the wine making a frayed, yellowish splotch on the white linen, and, rising, hurried toward the door.

She was choking with anger, pain, shame, regret.
"Aileen! Aileen!" he called, hurrying after her, regardless of the butler, who, hearing the sound of stirring chairs, had entered.

These family woes were an old story to him.

"It's love you want--not revenge.