Here’s the door, you go out of it. What have you got there, a great-coat, a fur coat? I’ll bring it out to you. They’ll get the horses out directly, and then—good-by, panie!” Mitya awaited an answer with assurance. He had no doubts. An expression of extraordinary resolution passed over the Pole’s face. “And the money, panie?” “The money, panie?
He was not even particularly struck by the Pole’s absurd wig made in Siberia, with love-locks foolishly combed forward over the temples. “I suppose it’s all right since he wears a wig,” he went on, musing blissfully.
The Pole on the sofa struck him by his dignified demeanor and his Polish accent; and, above all, by his pipe. “Well, what of it? It’s a good thing he’s smoking a pipe,” he reflected. The Pole’s puffy, middle-aged face, with its tiny nose and two very thin, pointed, dyed and impudent-looking mustaches, had not so far roused the faintest doubts in Mitya.