‘A roll, if you please,’ Pyetushkov said amiably.
‘The rolls are all gone,’ piped the fat woman.
‘Haven’t you any rolls?’
‘No.’
‘How’s that?—really! I take rolls from you every day, and pay for them regularly.’
The woman stared at him in silence. ‘Take twists,’ she said at last, yawning; ‘or a scone.’
‘I don’t like them,’ said Pyetushkov, and he felt positively hurt.
‘As you please,’ muttered the fat woman, and she slammed to the window-pane.
Ivan Afanasiitch was quite unhinged by his intense vexation. In his perturbation he crossed to the other side of the street, and gave himself up entirely, like a child, to his displeasure.
‘Sir!’ ... he heard a rather agreeable female voice; ‘sir!’