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Updated: April 30, 2025
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.
"I say, Ivan Kuzmitch," said the marshal, chuckling behind his hand. "It's really outrageous, an insult." "Nobody asks her not to understand! It's a lesson for these foreigners!" Gryabov took off his boots and his trousers, flung off his undergarments and remained in the costume of Adam. Otsov held his sides, he turned crimson both from laughter and embarrassment.
There was a burning sensation inside him, and his heart throbbed uneasily; he had a longing now to get a Serbian order. It was a painful, passionate longing. A FINE carriage with rubber tyres, a fat coachman, and velvet on the seats, rolled up to the house of a landowner called Gryabov. Fyodor Andreitch Otsov, the district Marshal of Nobility, jumped out of the carriage.
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.
Yesterday His Holiness held a service at Haponyevo, but I didn't go. I spent the day here with this . . . with this she-devil." "But . . . have you taken leave of your senses?" asked Otsov, glancing in embarrassment at the Englishwoman. "Using such language before a lady and she . . . ."
Looking down from the steep bank and catching sight of Gryabov, Otsov gushed with laughter. . . . Gryabov, a large stout man, with a very big head, was sitting on the sand, angling, with his legs tucked under him like a Turk. His hat was on the back of his head and his cravat had slipped on one side.
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.
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?"
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