That ugly pellet in his throat became a rough piece of gravel that he had to spit out or it would choke him.

“How can you care nothing about my deepest feelings, Gerda?” he cried loudly, while the trembling of his fingers made the knife he held rattle against the porridge-bowl. “Don’t you see it’s torture to me⁠ ⁠… torture⁠ ⁠… torture⁠ ⁠… torture⁠ ⁠… to change that cheque?” The nervous emotion he suffered from had grown to something out of all proportion to the occasion.