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"Whom do you want?" asked the woman, putting up her hand to shade her eyes from the sun. "Good-morning!" Ivan Ivanitch shouted, too, waving off the red dog with his stick. "Tell me, please, does Nastasya Petrovna Toskunov live here?" "Yes! But what do you want with her?" "Perhaps you are Nastasya Petrovna?" "Well, yes, I am!"
When their legs and their tongues had brought them to Little Lower Street they were both red in the face, and taking off their hats, wiped away the perspiration. "Tell me, please," said Ivan Ivanitch, addressing an old man sitting on a little bench by a gate, "where is Nastasya Petrovna Toskunov's house?" "There is no one called Toskunov here," said the old man, after pondering a moment.
We must arrange for him. My sister told me that Nastasya Petrovna, a friend of hers, lives somewhere here, so perhaps she will take him in as a boarder." He rummaged in his pocket-book, found a crumpled note and read: "'Little Lower Street: Nastasya Petrovna Toskunov, living in a house of her own. We must go at once and try to find her. It's a nuisance!"
"Perhaps it's Timoshenko you want." "No, Toskunov. . . ." "Excuse me, there's no one called Toskunov. . . ." Ivan Ivanitch shrugged his shoulders and trudged on farther. "You needn't look," the old man called after them. "I tell you there isn't, and there isn't."
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