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"It's not a ship, it's a Leviathan!" remarked with a devout sigh the pock-marked and stooping Trofim Zubov, cathedral-warden and principal usurer in town. It was a gray day. The sky, overcast with autumn clouds, was reflected in the water of the river, thus giving it a cold leaden colouring.
Come, let me embrace you!" "Let's toss, Mayakin! "Strike up the band." "Sound a flourish! A march. 'The Persian March." "We don't want any music! The devil take it!" "Here is the music! Eh, Yakov Tarasovich! What a mind!" "I was small among my brethren, but I was favoured with understanding." "You lie, Trofim!" "Yakov! you'll die soon. Oh, what a pity! Words can't express how sorry we are!"
They were already seated by the tables, covered with luncheon, and were hungrily admiring the huge sturgeon, almost three yards in length, nicely sprinkled over with greens and large crabs. Trofim Zubov, tying a napkin around his neck, looked at the monster fish with happy, sweetly half-shut eyes, and said to his neighbour, the flour merchant, Yona Yushkov: "Yona Nikiforich!
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