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Once he also possessed a friend named Pelagea Antonovna. Do you know Pelagea Antonovna? She is the woman who always puts on her petticoat wrong side outwards." What humour, Barbara what purest humour! We rocked with laughter when he read it aloud to us. Yes, that is the kind of man he is.
It was all perfectly accidental, arising from my informant striking an acquaintance with an intelligent skindresser lodging in that particular slum-house. A wonderful coincidence!" "A pious person," suggested Razumov, with a pale smile, "would say that the hand of God has done it all." "My poor father would have said that." Sophia Antonovna did not smile. She dropped her eyes.
Her thin, jetty eyebrows were drawn together. I learned afterwards with interest that she was the famous or the notorious Sophia Antonovna, but I was struck then by the quaint Mephistophelian character of her inquiring glance, because it was so curiously evil-less, so I may say un-devilish.
Razumov, after shaking hands with Sophia Antonovna, left the grounds, crossed the road, and walking out on the little steamboat pier leaned over the rail. His mind was at ease; ease such as he had not known for many days, ever since that night...the night.
Razumov fancied he could see a smile behind their sadness. "This is Razumov," Sophia Antonovna repeated loudly for the benefit of the fat man, who at some distance displayed the profile of his stomach. No one moved. Everything, sounds, attitudes, movements, and immobility seemed to be part of an experiment, the result of which was a thin voice piping with comic peevishness "Oh yes! Razumov.
It must also be said that Mikulin had inherited the sinister Nikita from his predecessor in office. And this story, too, I received without comment in my character of a mute witness of things Russian, unrolling their Eastern logic under my Western eyes. But I permitted myself a question "Tell me, please, Sophia Antonovna, did Madame de S leave all her fortune to Peter Ivanovitch?"
Sophia Antonovna shrugged her shoulders. The comrade with the martial red moustache hurried towards Razumov full of conciliatory intentions in his strong buzzing voice. "Devil take it! And in this place, too, in the public street, so to speak. But you can see yourself how it is. One of his fantastic sallies. Absolutely of no consequence."
But, on the sofa, near Sophia Antonovna, a bony-faced man with a goatee beard leaned forward with his hands on his knees, staring hard with a kindly expression. In a remote corner a broad, pale face and a bulky shape could be made out, uncouth, and as if insecure on the low seat on which it rested.
Could he have been the devil himself in the shape of an old Englishman? Natalia Victorovna, I was possessed! I returned to look at you every day, and drink in your presence the poison of my infamous intention. But I foresaw difficulties. Then Sophia Antonovna, of whom I was not thinking I had forgotten her existence appears suddenly with that tale from St.
Razumov, making that answer, wondered whether he were falling into a trap. It was so humiliating to lie to these people that he probably could not have said no. "He mentioned to me once," he added, as if making an effort of memory, "a house of that sort. He used to visit some workmen there." "Exactly." Sophia Antonovna triumphed.
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