“Your books. See for yourself by the catalogue that they are all right.”
“I have made you a present of them.”
“Be serious for a moment. Where shall I send them?”
“Goodbye. I have no time to spare. Don’t come to me with the books, or I will burn them. And you, wise man, who can tell a lover by his face, farewell. I don’t know whether we shall meet again.”
“Where is the money? It isn’t honest not to surrender it. I see the presence of love, which like measles has not yet come out, but soon will. Your face is already red. How tiresome that I fixed a limit, and so lose three hundred roubles by my own stupidity.”
“Goodbye.”
“You will not go,” said Mark with decision.
“I shall have another opportunity of seeing you, Koslov. I am not starting until next week.”
“You will not go,” repeated Mark.
“What about your novel?” asked Leonti. “You intended to finish it here.”