He would come to me just at those moments when I was up to the neck in work, would sit down and say:
“Ah! I’m afraid I’ve interrupted you.”
For two hours he would bore me to death, prattling of himself and his children. He would see I was tearing my hair and biting my lips till the blood came, and would simply delight in my torments.
Having poisoned my working mood for a whole month in advance, he would stand, yawn a little, and then murmur:
“Lord knows why I stay here talking. I’ve got lots to do.”
When I met him in a railway carriage he always began:
“Permit me to ask, are you going far?” And then:
“On business or ...?”
“Where do you work?”
“Married?”