The man sitting at the table speaks very slowly, with an unsteady voice.
The woman doesn’t like the way he speaks.
Several times she has called him Daddy, but he doesn’t like the way she talks about him.
Sometimes he bothers her, sometimes he doesn’t; sometimes she feels sorry for him, for his part, for the length of time it takes her to say – and she doesn’t mean to say anything at all when spoken to. Often her confiding turns into pleading and despair: My father! My father! I hate you! I hate you!