"Listen, Fatina, and I ... am I really alive?"
"It seems so to me."
"But am I ... made of wood or ..."
"You are made of iron."
"Of iron? Don't joke so with me, Fatina. If you want my nose to grow longer, dearest lady, or if you want me to turn back into a wooden puppet, I am ready to do so; but not of iron, no. I am too afraid of rust."
"But what are you talking about? Let me feel your pulse. No, that's all right, no fever. I said you were made of iron because you have come out of it all so wonderfully. You were threatened with gas gangrene, and if they had not amputated at once, it would have been the end of you, but instead ..."
"Please, please ... what did they do to me?"
"They cut off your injured leg."
"My leg!"
"Yes, indeed; they couldn't help it."