“I’m in a hurry. I can’t stay now. You shall tell me next Sunday.” Kolya waved his hand at her, as though she had attacked him and not he her.
“I’ve nothing to tell you next Sunday. You set upon me, you impudent young monkey. I didn’t say anything,” bawled Marya. “You want a whipping, that’s what you want, you saucy jackanapes!”
There was a roar of laughter among the other market women round her. Suddenly a man in a violent rage darted out from the arcade of shops close by. He was a young man, not a native of the town, with dark, curly hair and a long, pale face, marked with smallpox. He wore a long blue coat and a peaked cap, and looked like a merchant’s clerk. He was in a state of stupid excitement and brandished his fist at Kolya.
“I know you!” he cried angrily, “I know you!”
Kolya stared at him. He could not recall when he could have had a row with the man. But he had been in so many rows in the street that he could hardly remember them all.
“Do you?” he asked sarcastically.
“I know you! I know you!” the man repeated idiotically.
“So much the better for you. Well, it’s time I was going. Good‐by!”
“You are at your saucy pranks again?” cried the man. “You are at your saucy pranks again? I know, you are at it again!”
“It’s not your business, brother, if I am at my saucy pranks again,” said Kolya, standing still and scanning him.