Question

Two years ago, looking for a house to buy, I called at a real estate office. A member of the firm, scrabbling through a box containing keys, looked up to say, "The key to the Roxbury house isn't here but a skeleton will let you in."

I was, suddenly, once again five years old, with wide eyes and open mouth. I pictured the Roxbury house as I would have pictured it as a small boy, a house full of dark and nameless horrors.

It was of sentences like that, nonchalantly tossed off by real estate dealers, great-aunts, clergymen and others, that the enchanted private world of my early boyhopd was made. In this world, businessmen Who phoned their wives around five o'clock in the afternoon, to say that they were tied up at the office, sat roped to their swivel chairs, unable to move. Then there was the man who left the town under a cloud. Usually I saw the cloud, about the size of a sofa, floating three or four feet above his head and following him wherever he went.

I remember the grotesque creature who haunted my meditations when my mother said to my father, "Mrs. Johnson was all ears". There were many other wonderful figures in the secret, landscapes of my youth. The old lady who was always up in the air, the husband who did not seem to be able to put his foot down, the man who lost his head during a fire but was still able to run out of the house yelling, the young lady who was, in reality, a soiled dove. One had to brood over this world in silence, if you put it to the test of questions, your parents would try to laugh the miracles away. Such a world, alas, is not year proof. It began to dissolve one day when our cook said, "Frances is up in the front room crying her heart out. The fact that a person could cry so hard that his heart would come out of his body, as perfectly shaped and glossy as a red velvet pincushion, was news to me. I went upstairs and opened the door of the front room. Frances jumped off the bed and ran downstairs. I tore the bed apart and kicked up the rugs, searching for her heart. It was not good. I looked out of the window at t rain and the darkening sky..My cherished marital image of the man under the cloud began to grow dim and fade away. Downstairs, in the living room, Frances was still crying. I began to laugh.
why did author laugh when france was crying​

Answer 1

Answer:

here is answer of your question

Explanation:

i hope its helpful

Answer 2

Answer:

the author derived sadistic pleasure on seeing her cry