"What then? From wealth?" asked Peredonov, and burst into a laugh.
"Not at all from poverty," said Vladya flushing. "It's very good for the health. It hardens one, and it's very pleasant in summer."
"You're lying," said Peredonov coarsely, "rich people don't go barefoot. Your father has a lot of children and hasn't got tuppence to keep them on. You can't afford to buy so many boots."
[1] Great Polish poet (1798-1855) who "is held to have been the greatest Slavonic poet with the exception of Pushkin."
[CHAPTER VII]
Varvara had no knowledge of Peredonov's trip. She passed an extremely distressing night.
When Peredonov returned to town in the morning he did not go home, but asked to be driven to church—it was time for Mass. It seemed dangerous to him now not to go to church often—they might inform against him if he did not.
At the church gate he met a pleasant-looking schoolboy, with a rosy, ingenuous face and innocent blue eyes. Peredonov said to him:
"Hullo there, Mashenka, hullo, girlie!"