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Updated: May 11, 2025
And to make things worse, Bugrov would run across every morning and in a hissing whisper would give some quite unnecessary bulletin concerning the health of Father Pyotr. He bored them with those bulletins. "He slept well," he informed them. "Yesterday he was put out because I had no salted cucumbers. . . He has taken to Mishutka; he keeps patting him on the head."
He sat down beside her, and took her hand. "Are you dull, Lizotchka?" he said, after a brief silence. "Are you depressed? Why shouldn't we go away somewhere? Why is it we always stay at home? We want to go about, to enjoy ourselves, to make acquaintances. . . . Don't we?" "I want nothing," said Liza, and turned her pale, thin face towards the path by which Bugrov used to come to her.
For her to live with a man she does not love, to live with you is . . . is a misery!" "And she?" Bugrov repeated, this time not in an ironical tone. "She . . . she loves me! We love each other, Ivan Petrovitch! Kill us, despise us, pursue us, do as you will, but we can no longer conceal it from you.
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