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Our master the general is dead the Kingdom of Heaven be his or he would have shown you judges.... You ought to judge sensibly, not at random.... Flog if you like, but flog someone who deserves it, flog with conscience." NIKOLAY TCHIKILDYEEV, a waiter in the Moscow hotel, Slavyansky Bazaar, was taken ill.

"Why, do you come from Moscow?" asked one of the young ladies. "Yes, miss. My husband was a waiter at the Slavyansky Bazaar. And this is my daughter," she said, indicating Sasha, who was cold and huddling up to her. "She is a Moscow girl, too." The two young ladies said something in French to the student, and he gave Sasha a twenty-kopeck piece.

His mother, a conceited, sulky personage, with aristocratic pretensions, despised his wife and lived apart with a perfect menagerie of cats and dogs, and he had to allow her seventy-five roubles a month also; he was, too, a man of taste, liked lunching at the Slavyansky Bazaar and dining at the Hermitage; he needed a great deal of money, but his uncle only allowed him two thousand roubles a year, which was not enough, and for days together he would run about Moscow with his tongue out, as the saying is, looking for some one to borrow from and this, too, amused him.

She shouted that it was all his fault; why had he sent them so little when he boasted in his letters that he was getting fifty roubles a month at the Slavyansky Bazaar? Why had he come, and with his family, too? If he died, where was the money to come from for his funeral...? And it was pitiful to look at Nikolay, Olga, and Sasha.

"It's lovely here in your parts!" said Olga, crossing herself at the sight of the church. "What space, oh Lord!" Two little girls, down below, who were dragging up a pail of water, looked round at the church to listen to the bell. "At this time they are serving the dinners at the Slavyansky Bazaar," said Nikolay dreamily.