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And the day before the ball, Anfisa's rival snapped up the only red camellias to be had in the place, from under Platon's nose, and Platon wretched man was done for. Now if Peter had only been able to step in at this moment with a red bouquet, his little hopes might have made gigantic strides.
The boy listened to his words, looked at him and felt as though his father were coming nearer and nearer to him. And though his father's story did not contain the material of which Aunt Anfisa's fairy-tales were brimful, there was something new in it, something clearer and more comprehensible than in her fairy-tales, and something just as interesting.
She was especially fond of speaking about her brother Taras, whom she had never seen, but of whom she was telling such stories as would make him look like Aunt Anfisa's brave and noble robbers. Often, when complaining of her father, she said to Foma: "You will also be just such a skinflint." All this was unpleasant to the youth and stung his vanity.
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