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Updated: May 10, 2025
The fancy came into Yartsev's mind that perhaps that copse was haunted by the spirits of the Muscovite Tsars, boyars, and patriarchs, and he was on the point of telling Kostya about it, but he checked himself. When they reached the town gate there was a faint light of dawn in the sky.
Laptev read the continuation of a story, then sat for a long time without reading and without being bored, glad to think that he was too late for dinner at home. "Ha, ha, ha!" came Yartsev's laugh, and he walked in with ruddy cheeks, looking strong and healthy, wearing a new coat with bright buttons. "Ha, ha, ha!" The friends dined together.
Arriving one day at Yartsev's, Laptev found no one there but Polina, who was sitting at the piano practising her exercises. She looked at him with a cold, almost hostile expression, and asked without shaking hands: "Tell me, please: how much longer is this going on?" "This? What?" asked Laptev, not understanding. "You come here every day and hinder Yartsev from working.
They went into Yartsev's flat by the back way through the kitchen, where they were met by the cook, a clean little old woman with grey curls; she was overcome with embarrassment, and with a honeyed smile which made her little face look like a pie, said: "Please walk in." Yartsev was not at home.
"Let us go together," he said, stretching. When they reached the university Polina waited at the gate, while Laptev went into the office; he came back soon afterwards and handed Polina five receipts. "Where are you going now?" he asked. "To Yartsev's." "I'll come with you." "But you'll prevent him from writing." "No, I assure you I won't," he said, and looked at her imploringly.
She had a little furnished room in the flat of a solitary lady who provided her meals. Her big Becker piano was for the time at Yartsev's in Great Nikitsky Street, and she went there every day to play on it.
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