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Forgive him. Let him alone!" The deacon looked in surprise at Anastasy's dark face, at his unbuttoned cassock, which looked in the dusk like wings, and shrugged his shoulders. "How can I forgive him like that?" he asked. "Why I shall have to answer for him to God!" "Even so, forgive him all the same. Really! And God will forgive you for your kindness to him." "But he is my son, isn't he?
He-he-he! . . ." Anastasy went on coughing till he choked. "Don't interfere, Father Anastasy," said his Reverence sternly. "Nikolay Matveyitch asked him, 'What madame is this helping the soup at your table?" the deacon went on, gloomily scanning Anastasy's bent figure. "'That is my wife, said he.
Anastasy's words, his hoarse jangling laugh at what was not laughable, had an unpleasant effect on his Reverence and on the deacon. The former was on the point of saying, "Don't interfere" again, but he did not say it, he only frowned. "I can't write to him," sighed the deacon. "If you can't, who can?"
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