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Updated: May 10, 2025
"What sort of poem?" "'In case she were to break her leg." "Wha-a-t?" That was all the captain was waiting for. He had an unbounded admiration for his own poems, but, through a certain cunning duplicity, he was pleased, too, that Nikolay Vsyevolodovitch always made merry over his poems, and sometimes laughed at them immoderately.
Thirty times at least he had called the name, Antropka. When suddenly, from the farthest end of the plain, as though from another world, there floated a scarcely audible reply: 'Wha-a-t? The boy's voice shouted back at once with gleeful exasperation: 'Come here, devil! woo-od imp! 'What fo-or? replied the other, after a long interval.
"Get up," the inspector called out to him. The old man did not rise and only smiled contemptuously. "Thy servants are standing before thee. I am not thy servant. Thou bearest the seal " The old man pointed to the inspector's forehead. "Wha-a-t?" said the inspector threateningly, and made a step towards him. "I know this man," Nekhludoff hastened to say; "what is he imprisoned for?"
LEONÍD. I do love you, indeed I do! Same room as in second picture POTÁPYCH is leaning against the door-jamb, his hand to his head. VASILÍSA PEREGRÍNOVNA enters quietly. VASILÍSA PEREGRÍNOVNA. Result of yesterday evening, I suppose, my friend? POTÁPYCH. Wha-a-t? VASILÍSA PEREGRÍNOVNA. Your head aches. POTÁPYCH. Did you put up the money?
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