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Our madame is very strict about books. She says they hinder our working. For, to her thinking ... 'But, I say, Yury Miloslavsky's not equal to Pushkin's Gipsies? Eh? Musa Pavlovna? Tarhov broke in with a smile. 'No, indeed! The Gipsies ... she murmured slowly. 'Oh yes, another thing, Vladimir Nikolaitch; don't come to-morrow ... you know where. 'Why not? 'It's impossible. 'But why?
'You must rest a little, anyway. You're out of breath.... You're tired. 'I'm not tired. It's ... not that ... only ... give me another book; I've finished this one. She took out of her pocket a tattered grey volume of a Moscow edition. 'Of course, of course. Well, did you like it? Roslavlev, added Tarhov, addressing me. 'Yes. Only I think Yury Miloslavsky is much better.
Then the wife of Yury Meledinsky you know, the invalid? heard of this Landau, and had him to see her husband. And he cured her husband, though I can't say that I see he did him much good, for he's just as feeble a creature as ever he was, but they believed in him, and took him along with them and brought him to Russia. Here there's been a general rush to him, and he's begun doctoring everyone.
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