“You stole that somewhere, I suppose?” asked Tikhon Ilitch, nodding towards the valise, and thinking of the business upon which he had come to the station.
Deniska bent his head but made no reply.
“And it’s empty, of course?”
“Yes, it’s empty.”
“Were you turned out of your place?”
“I left of my own accord.”
Tikhon Ilitch heaved a sigh. “The living image of his father!” said he. “That one was always exactly like that: Pitch him out of a place by the scruff of his neck, and he’d tell you—‘I left of my own accord.’”
“May I drop dead right before your eyes if I’m lying.”
“Well, all right, all right. Have you been at home?”