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"I said, co-cot-te," pronounced the whiskered man, moving his lips as if he tasted the word. "And if you don't understand it, I can explain it to you." "You had better explain it," said Foma, with a deep sigh, not lifting his eyes off the man. Ookhtishchev clasped his hands and rushed aside.
Foma smiled sheepishly and stared in confusion at the whiskered man, Ookhtishchev's interlocutor. That man was stroking his moustache with an air of importance, and deep, heavy, repulsive words fell from his lips on Foma's ears. "Because, you see, there will be one co-cot-te less in town." "Shame, Martin Nikitich!" said Ookhtishchev, reproachfully, knitting his brow.
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