"What do I care for Berek Shyldman! What do I care for furniture!" cried Kranitski, "when those noble hearts remember me—"
"Hearts have no stomachs; there is no need of stuffing something into them the first minute."
"What does mother know? Mother is an honest woman, but her level is earth to earth—she only thinks of this cursed money!"
"But is pate de foie gras holy? Arabian adventure!"
Both voices were raised somewhat. Kranitski threw himself on the sofa, pressed his right side with his palm, groaned.
Then Clemens turned her face toward him; she had grown mild and seemed frightened.
"Well, has pain caught thee?"
It was clear that he was suffering. An old affliction of the liver, and something of the heart in addition. Mother Clemens approached the sofa in her clattering overshoes.
"Well, do not excite thyself. What is to be done? How much money will that Arabian pate cost?"
"And the liqueur!" put in Kranitski.