“The hell with Christmas!”
“What?” He stopped, breeks half-buttoned. It was winter dusk, and dark in the room, but even by candlelight, he could see the color rising in her face.
“The hell with Christmas, the hell with Cross Creek — and the fucking hell with you, too!” She punctuated this last with a wooden soap dish from the washstand, which whizzed past his left ear and smacked into the wall behind him.
“Now just a fucking minute!”
“Don’t you use language like that to me!”
“But you –”
“You and your ‘important things!’ Her hand tightened on the big china ewer and he tensed, ready to duck, but she thought better of it and her hand relaxed.
Diana Gabaldon, The Fiery Cross (Chap 33)