Ordinarily, the gentleman screamed, I would be having beans on toast, but now! Now! Now!
I see I’ve mistaken you for a scoundrel, when in fact you are only a sullen child. A dullard, lacking wit, and a timely sense of what’s what. Time was, on the worst days, when even your most outrageous exploits, outbursts, mindquakes, seemed, if not charming, at least, well, sincere. Now, even your restrained cracklings seem like the torn scribbling of a layabout’s tear-stained maunderings. Too much ruminating in solitude leaves one with pretty threadbare illusions, no?
But, but, but… Toast? sobbed the impeccably dressed fellow, blowing his nose on his silk, lavender tie.
Here’s your toast, you emotional simpleton. Hush now, hush now. Take comfort in the fact that you’re as easily consoled as a spoilt child: all we have to do is give you what you want. Even now, see? Your tears swallowed up by the ruined desert of your face. Oh? Did I say ruined desert? I only meant handkerchief.