The intent to wound raises rage. . . .

"The intent to wound raises rage. I could feel the fever rise in me. Ugly, desperate words moved up like venom. I felt a sour hatefulness.
'Mary said, 'Look! There it goes! Did you see it?'
'Where? What?'
'Went right past the tree there and into our yard.'
'What was it, Mary? Tell me! What did you see?'
In the dusk I saw her smile, that incredible female smile. It is called wisdom but it isn't that but rather an understanding that makes wisdom unnecessary.
'You didn't see anything, Mary.'
'I saw a quarrel--but it got away.'
I put my arm about her and turned her. 'Let's go around the block before we go in.'
We strolled in the tunnel of the night and we didn't speak again, or need to."

. . . John Steinbeck . . . The Winter of Our Discontent . . . 129 . . .