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Updated: May 13, 2025
Rashevitch answered briskly, anticipating a prolonged and interesting argument. "Why not?" "Because I am of the artisan class myself!" As he said this Meier turned crimson, and his neck seemed to swell, and tears actually gleamed in his eyes. "My father was a simple workman," he said, in a rough, jerky voice, "but I see no harm in that." Rashevitch was fearfully confused.
Let us all make a compact, that as soon as a plebeian comes near us we fling some careless phrase straight in his ugly face: 'Paws off! Go back to your kennel, you cur! straight in his ugly face," Rashevitch went on gleefully, flicking his crooked finger in front of him. "In his ugly face!" "I can't do that," Meier brought out, turning away. "Why not?"
And now, enjoying his ideas and the sound of his own voice, and looking with pleasure at the plump but well-proportioned, neatly cropped, correct Meier, Rashevitch dreamed of how he would arrange his daughter's marriage with a good man, and then how all his worries over the estate would pass to his son-in-law. Hateful worries!
Rashevitch stood still, combing his beard with both hands; his shadow, too, stood still on the wall, looking like a pair of scissors. "Take Mother-Russia now," he went on, thrusting his hands in his pockets and standing first on his heels and then on his toes. "Who are her best people? Take our first-rate painters, writers, composers . . . . Who are they? They were all of aristocratic origin.
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