When he said this, Pan Victor was very tragic.
"Oh, you attribute too much to me!"
Pan Victor passed into lyric poetry, "You are an angel—
"Oh, that is all well enough—but let us talk of something else."
"Then you do not like Eli?"
"A moment ago I began to hate him."
"Oh, you put on ugly faces! I ask you to become serene, and tell me your favorite poet."
"Sovinski," muttered Pan Victor, gloomily.
"But I simply fear him. Irony, blood, fire—wild outbursts."
"Such things do not terrify me at all," said Pan Victor; then he looked so valiant, that a dog, which had run out from a cottage, hid its tail under its belly and withdrew in fright.