That evening found Q. tottering about the kitchen, accompanied by the formidable swing of his cane and the smashing of several pieces of China cookery, which he failed in hearing due to age and deafness. The landlady was sitting curled up in her corner with a pie (Shepherd’s , delectable) in each hand, as she had been for the past half-hour. It was her silence that had provoked Q.’s rage. Not of ill-will, for the tear tracks down her cheeks allowed her to appear undeniably miserable. The omni-loving Q., easily touched by such displays, had set upon bowl-smashing in the hopes of prompting a response from her inert and noble form. In his head he was looking to rouse gratitude with an exaggeration of empathy, and his eyes had begun tearing from his exertions, and the frustration of their failure.