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Updated: May 29, 2025
Wilka Charlesovna Fyce! Tfoo! There is no getting it out!" The Englishwoman, hearing her name, deliberately turned her nose in Gryabov's direction and scanned him with a disdainful glance; she raised her eyes from Gryabov to Otsov and steeped him in disdain. And all this in silence, with dignity and deliberation. "Did you see?" said Gryabov chuckling.
A drowsy footman met him in the hall. "Are the family at home?" asked the Marshal. "No, sir. The mistress and the children are gone out paying visits, while the master and mademoiselle are catching fish. Fishing all the morning, sir." Otsov stood a little, thought a little, and then went to the river to look for Gryabov. Going down to the river he found him a mile and a half from the house.
Wading knee deep in the water and drawing his huge figure up to its full height, he gave a wink and said: "This isn't England, you see!" Miss Fyce coolly put on another worm, gave a yawn, and dropped the hook in. Otsov turned away, Gryabov released his hook, ducked into the water and, spluttering, waded out. Two minutes later he was sitting on the sand and angling as before.
Both were motionless, as the river upon which their floats were swimming. "A desperate passion, but deadly dull!" laughed Otsov. "Good-day, Ivan Kuzmitch." "Ah . . . is that you ?" asked Gryabov, not taking his eyes off the water. "Have you come?" "As you see . . . . And you are still taken up with your crazy nonsense! Not given it up yet?"
"I can't. . . . There's always good fishing in the evening. . . . What a nuisance. Lord, forgive us, I shall have to wade into the water, I must! And if only you knew, I have no inclination to undress. I shall have to get rid of the Englishwoman. . . . It's awkward to undress before her. After all, she is a lady, you know!" Gryabov flung off his hat, and his cravat.
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