A bare-footed urchin, dirty and so ragged that there was more of his bare body than clothes upon him, ran up to the gang.
“Which one of you here is Platonov?” he asked, quickly running over them with his thievish eyes.
“I’m Platonov, and by what name do they tease you?”
“Around the corner here, behind the church, some sort of a young lady is waiting for you...Here’s a note for you.”
The whole gang neighed deeply.
“What d’you open up your mouths for, you pack of fools!” said Platonov calmly. “Give me the note here.”
This was a letter from Jennka, written in a round, naive, rolling, childish handwriting, and not very well spelt.
“Sergei Ivanich. Forgive me that I disturbe you. I must talk over a very, very important matter with you. I would not be troubling you if it was Trifles. For only 10 minutes in all. Jennka, whom you know, from Anna Markovna’s.”
Platonov got up.
“I’m going away for a little while,” he said to Zavorotny. “When you begin, I’ll be in my place.”