Brusquerie

“Yes? But then the Frenchman is a marquis, and the cleverer of the two,” remarked Polina imperturbably. “Is that so?” I repeated. “Yes; absolutely.” Polina was not at all pleased at my questions; I could see that she was doing her best to irritate me with the brusquerie of her answers. But I took no notice of this.

Dorothea looked straight before her, and spoke with cold brusquerie, very much with the air of a handsome boy, in amusing contrast with the solicitous amiability of her admirer.