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Updated: June 16, 2025
To the tailor Kuprian Apollonov ... Ivan Afanasiitch suddenly raised his head, put out his hand and mixed up the counters. 'What are you about, my good man? cried Praskovia Ivanovna. 'Don't you trust me? 'Praskovia Ivanovna, replied Pyetushkov, with a hurried smile, 'I've thought better of it. I was only, you know ... joking. We'd better remain friends and go on in the old way.
He began to get thin and pale, eat unwillingly and hurriedly, and did not smoke at all. Onisim could only shake his head, as he looked at him. 'You're not well, Ivan Afanasiitch, he said to him more than once. 'No, I'm all right, replied Pyetushkov. Onisim was not at home.
Ivan Afanasiitch stood still a moment, groped after his cap, put it on askew, and went out without closing his mouth. He reached home, took up a leather cushion, and with it flung himself on the sofa, with his face to the wall. Onisim looked in out of the passage, went into the room, leaned his back against the door, took a pinch of snuff, and crossed his legs.
Vassilissa got back as far as the middle of the room. 'Well, God be with you, Ivan Afanasiitch. I'll keep myself to myself, and you keep yourself to yourself. 'Nonsense, Vassilissa, nonsense, Pyetushkov cut her short. 'You think again; look at me. You see I'm not myself. You see I don't know what I'm saying.... You might have some feeling for me. 'You keep on abusing me, Ivan Afanasiitch.
'Yes, sir, responded Onisim, as abruptly as if some one had just given him a shove from behind. Pyetushkov set off, reached the baker's shop, tapped at the window. The fat woman opened the pane. 'Give me a roll, please, Ivan Afanasiitch articulated slowly. The fat woman stuck out an arm, bare to the shoulder a huge arm, more like a leg than an arm and thrust the hot bread just under his nose.
Well, we shall see. Ivan Afanasiitch went out of the house, and made his way to the baker's shop.
I tell you, he repeated. Vassilissa looked round ... 'I am speaking to you ... where have you been? And Pyetushkov raised his arm ... 'Don't beat me, Ivan Afanasiitch, don't beat me, Vassilissa whispered in terror. Pyetushkov turned away. 'Beat you ... No! I'm not going to beat you. Beat you? I beg your pardon, my darling. God bless you! While I supposed you loved me, while I ... I ...
Again a silence followed. 'Tell me, Praskovia Ivanovna, began Ivan Afanasiitch; 'that's your niece, I fancy, isn't it, living with you? 'My own niece, sir. 'How comes it ... she's with you?.... 'She's an orphan, so I keep her. 'And is she a good worker? 'Such a girl to work ... such a girl, sir ... ay ... ay ... to be sure she is.
What nonsense it is! How can we separate tell me that, please? Praskovia Ivanovna looked down and made him no reply. 'Come, we've been talking nonsense, and there's an end of it, pursued Ivan Afanasiitch, walking up and down the room, rubbing his hands, and, as it were, resuming his ancient rights. 'Amen! and now I'd better have a pipe. Praskovia Ivanovna still did not move from her place....
Ivan Afanasiitch stood some time under the window, walked once or twice up and down the street, glanced into the courtyard, and at last, ashamed of his childishness, returned home with the roll in his hand. He felt ill at ease the whole day, and even in the evening, contrary to his habit, did not drop into conversation with Onisim. The next morning it was Onisim who went for the roll.
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