A little restive in the wake of your anger, you come back inside.  You wince as the bells lashed to the door frame (much heavier and deeper than ordinary door chimes) intone your entrance.

Martha has remained behind the counter, her fists perched upon its edge and her face set so that she resembles a gargoyle.  A gargoyle with coiling red hair and fine, classical features.  Who smells like apples.  Apples in autumn!, when a man and the woman he fancies can walk in the leaves, and eat pie, and requite their love every hour of the day, and-

Steady, Dannoobadang!, you tell yourself.  One thing at a time, now; you'll see if you can handle a simple conversation with her before moving on.

In that spirit, you saunter up to the counter and say: