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"The wine, one must admit, is wretched stuff! Vinum nastissimum! Though in the presence of . . . er . . . it tastes like nectar. You are enchanting, madam! In imagination I kiss your hand." "I would give a great deal to do so not in imagination," said Obtyosov. "On my honour, I'd give my life." "That's enough," said Madame Tchernomordik, flushing and assuming a serious expression.
There seemed to be a lump in her chest that kept rising into her throat. . . . A few paces behind her Tchernomordik lay curled up close to the wall, snoring sweetly. A greedy flea was stabbing the bridge of his nose, but he did not feel it, and was positively smiling, for he was dreaming that every one in the town had a cough, and was buying from him the King of Denmark's cough-drops.
The only person not asleep was the young wife of Tchernomordik, a qualified dispenser who kept a chemist's shop at B . She had gone to bed and got up again three times, but could not sleep, she did not know why. She sat at the open window in her nightdress and looked into the street. She felt bored, depressed, vexed . . . so vexed that she felt quite inclined to cry again she did not know why.
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