“No, thanks...it isn’t that at all. I’ll tell everything at once, there, where we’re going now.”
In the dim, low-ceiled little inn, the customary haunt of petty thieves, where business was carried on only in the evening, until very far into the night, Platonov took the little half-dark cubby hole.
“Give me boiled meat, cucumbers, a large glass of vodka, and bread,” he ordered the waiter.
The waiter—a young fellow with a dirty face; pugnosed; as dirty and greasy in all his person as though he had just been pulled out of a cesspool, wiped his lips and asked hoarsely:
“How many kopecks’ bread?” “As much as it comes to.” Then he started laughing:
“Bring as much as possible—we’ll reckon it up later... and some bread cider!”
“Well, Jennie, say what your trouble is...I can already see by your face that there’s trouble, or something distasteful in general...Go ahead and tell it!”
Jennka for a long time plucked her handkerchief and looked at the tips of her slippers, as though, gathering her strength. Timorousness had taken possession of her—the necessary and important words would not come into her mind, for anything. Platonov came to her aid: “Don’t be embarrassed, my dear Jennie, tell all there is! For you know that I’m like one of the family, and will never give you away. And perhaps I may really give you some worth-while advice. Well, dive off with a splash into the water—begin!”
“That’s just it, I don’t know how to begin,” said Jennka irresolutely. “Here’s what, Sergei Ivanovich, I’m a sick woman...Understand?—sick in a bad way...With the most nasty disease...Do you know which?”
“Go on!” said Platonov, nodding his head.