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Updated: May 17, 2025
"It's all right! You can talk of this later," said the old man, scanning his daughter with his eyes. "Lubova, you can make your arrangements here, while we finish our little conversation. Well then, African Mitrich, explain yourself." "You will pardon me, Lubov Yakovlevna, won't you?" asked Smolin, gently. "Pray do not stand upon ceremony," said Lubov.
Taking an orange, Lubov began to peel it with exaggerated attention, while Smolin, lowering his eyes, examined his moustaches, which he carefully stroked with his left hand, toyed with a knife and suddenly asked the girl in a lowered voice: "Pardon me for my indiscretion. It is evidently really difficult for you, Lubov Yakovlevna, to live with your father.
He took an active part in all the affairs of the town, devoted himself to church singing, conducted the choir, played on the violin, and painted ikons. In 1854 he married Yevgenia Yakovlevna Morozov, the daughter of a cloth merchant of fairly good education who had settled down at Taganrog after a life spent in travelling about Russia in the course of his business.
And now, let's eat something, after the Russian fashion." "How are you passing the time, Lubov Yakovlevna?" asked Smolin, arming himself with knife and fork. "She is rather lonesome here with me," replied Mayakin for his daughter. "My housekeeper, all the household is on her shoulders, so she has no time to amuse herself." "And no place, I must add," said Lubov.
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