BOLSHÓV. Thanks, Lázar, thanks! [He drinks] Take a drink yourself.
PODKHALYÚZIN. Your health! [He drinks] Mamma, won't you have some, ma'am?
Please do!
AGRAFÉNA KONDRÁTYEVNA. Holy saints, what am I to do now? Such is the will of God! O Lord, my God! Ah, my own little dove, you!
PODKHALYÚZIN. Ah, mamma, God is merciful; we'll get out of it somehow. Not all at once, ma'am!
AGRAFÉNA KONDRÁTYEVNA. Lord grant we may! As it is, it makes me pine away simply looking at him.
BOLSHÓV. Well, what about it, Lázar?
PODKHALYÚZIN. Ten kopeks, if you please, I'll give, sir, as we said.
BOLSHÓV. But where am I going to get fifteen more? I can't make 'em out of door-mats.
PODKHALYÚZIN. Daddy, I can't raise 'em, sir! God sees that I can't, sir!
BOLSHÓV. What's the matter, Lázar? What's the matter? What have you done with the money?