One Hundred Years of Solitude

release his good humor.
Cease, cows, life is short, he
would shout. Úrsula
wondered what
entanglements he had got
into, whether he might be
stealing, whether he had
become a rustler, and every
time she saw him uncorking
champagne just for the
pleasure of pouring the foam
over his head, she would
shout at him and scold him
for the waste. It annoyed him