“What for?” Fyodor asked in a husky voice.
“I should put her under a glass case on my work-table. I should admire her and show her to other people. You know, Pelagea Ivanovna, we have no women like you there. Among us there is wealth, distinction, sometimes beauty, but we have not this true sort of life, this healthy serenity....”
My uncle sat down facing Tatyana Ivanovna and took her by the hand.
“So you won’t come with me to Petersburg?” he laughed. “In that case give me your little hand.... A charming little hand!... You won’t give it? Come, you miser! let me kiss it, anyway....”
At that moment there was the scrape of a chair. Fyodor jumped up, and with heavy, measured steps went up to his wife. His face was pale, grey, and quivering. He brought his fist down on the table with a bang, and said in a hollow voice:
“I won’t allow it!”
At the same moment Pobyedimsky jumped up from his chair. He, too, pale and angry, went up to Tatyana Ivanovna, and he, too, struck the table with his fist.
“I... I won’t allow it!” he said.
“What, what’s the matter?” asked my uncle in surprise.
“I won’t allow it!” repeated Fyodor, banging on the table.