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"To Hatovo, I suppose?" "Hatov? No, not to Hatov's exactly?... And I don't know him though I've heard of him." "The village of Hatovo, the village, seven miles from here." "A village? C'est charmant, to be sure I've heard of it...." Stepan Trofimovitch was still walking, they had not yet taken him into the cart. A guess that was a stroke of genius flashed through his mind.
"Yes, that does happen among you in Russia... in general we Russians. .. Well, yes, it happens," Stepan Trofimovitch broke off. "If you are a teacher, what are you going to Hatovo for? Maybe you are going on farther." "I... I'm not going farther precisely.... C'est-d-dire, I'm going to a merchant's." "To Spasov, I suppose?" "Yes, yes, to Spasov. But that's no matter."
There followed an examination in earnest. "Tell me all about it, my good girl. Sit down beside me; that's right. Well?" "I met Stepan Trofimovitch..." "Stay, hold your tongue! I warn you that if you tell lies or conceal anything, I'll ferret it out. Well?" "Stepan Trofimovitch and I... as soon as I came to Hatovo..." Sofya Matveyevna began almost breathlessly. "Stay, hold your tongue, wait a bit!
"I can't get to Spasov!" she said to the woman of the cottage. "Why, you are bound to Spasov, too, then?" cried Stepan Trofimovitch, starting. It appeared that a lady had the day before told her to wait at Hatovo and had promised to take her to Spasov, and now this lady had not turned up after all. "What am I to do now?" repeated Sofya Matveyevna.
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