 Are you content to sit here, Judith, and let your son insult me? He's your son as well as mine. I begin to doubt it. Oh, David! Father, how can you? I'll never attempt to read any of you anything again as long as I live. You're not a bit interested in my work. You don't give a damn whether I'm a success or a failure. You're dead certain to be a failure if you cram your books with inaccuracies. I am not inaccurate! Yes, you are, and you're foul-tempered and spoiled.