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Updated: May 9, 2025
On the other side in the little drawing-room a love scene was apparently taking place between two persons: their daughter Natashenka and a teacher of the district school, called Shchupkin. "He's rising!" whispered Peplov, quivering with impatience and rubbing his hands.
And if I write you a real poem, will you let me kiss your hand?" "That's nothing much! You can kiss it now if you like." Shchupkin jumped up, and making sheepish eyes, bent over the fat little hand that smelt of egg soap. "Take down the ikon," Peplov whispered in a fluster, pale with excitement, and buttoning his coat as he prodded his wife with his elbow. "Come along, now!"
On the other side of the door this was the conversation: "Don't go on like that!" said Shchupkin, striking a match against his checked trousers. "I never wrote you any letters!" "I like that! As though I didn't know your writing!" giggled the girl with an affected shriek, continually peeping at herself in the glass. "I knew it at once! And what a queer man you are!
And without a second's delay Peplov flung open the door. "Children," he muttered, lifting up his arms and blinking tearfully, "the Lord bless you, my children. May you live be fruitful and multiply." "And and I bless you, too," the mamma brought out, crying with happiness. "May you be happy, my dear ones! Oh, you are taking from me my only treasure!" she said to Shchupkin.
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