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Vassilissa was sitting with her back to him, winding worsted, and carelessly singing to herself; she was wearing a striped cotton gown; her hair was done up anyhow.... The room, insufferably hot, smelt of feather beds and old rags; jaunty, reddish-brown 'Prussians' scurried rapidly here and there across the walls; on the decrepit chest of drawers, with holes in it where the locks should have been, beside a broken jar, lay a woman's shabby slipper.... Kozlov's poem was still where it had fallen on the floor.... Pyetushkov shook his head, folded his arms, and went away.
He found several odd numbers of the Library of Good Reading, five grey Moscow novels, Nazarov's arithmetic, a child's geography with a globe on the title-page, the second part of Keydanov's history, two dream-books, an almanack for the year 1819, two numbers of Galatea, Kozlov's Natalia Dolgorukaia, and the first part of Roslavlev.
He pondered a long while which to choose, and finally made up his mind to take Kozlov's poem, and Roslavlev. Next day Pyetushkov dressed in haste, put both the books under the lapel of his coat, went to the baker's shop, and began reading aloud Zagoskin's novel.
Pyetushkov felt angry with her and with himself.... 'It's dull, said Vassilissa lazily. 'I tell you what, would you like me to read you poetry? 'What say? 'Poetry ... good poetry. 'No, that's enough, really. Pyetushkov hurriedly picked up Kozlov's poem, jumped up, crossed the room, ran impulsively up to Vassilissa, and began reading.
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