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Updated: May 17, 2025
Bugrov himself was not quite in his usual trim when Groholsky walked in . . . . With a red face and uncombed locks he was pacing about the room in deshabille, talking to himself, apparently much agitated. Mishutka was sitting on the sofa there in the drawing-room, and was making the air vibrate with a piercing scream. "It's awful, Grigory Vassilyevitch!"
That fact could be deduced from the smacking of his lips, the sound of which reached Liza's ears. He was wearing a brown dressing-gown with black flowers on it. Massive tassels fell down to the ground. It was the first time in her life Liza had seen her husband in a dressing-gown, and such an expensive-looking one. Mishutka was sitting on one of his knees, and hindering him from drinking his tea.
Well, I am a scoundrel." These tears and these words turned Groholsky's soul inside out. He would look timidly at Liza's pale face and wring his hands. "Go to bed, Ivan Petrovitch," he would say timidly. "I am going. . . . Come along, Mishutka. . . . The Lord be our judge!
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