Ivan Afanasiitch raised his eyes. From the open pane of the bakehouse window peeped a girl of about seventeen, holding a white roll in her hand. She had a full round face, rosy cheeks, small hazel eyes, rather a turn-up nose, fair hair, and magnificent shoulders. Her features suggested good-nature, laziness, and carelessness.
‘Here’s a roll for you, sir,’ she said, laughing, ‘I’d taken for myself; but take it, please, I’ll give it up to you.’
‘I thank you most sincerely. Allow me ...’
Pyetushkov began fumbling in his pocket.
‘No, no! you are welcome to it.’
She closed the window-pane.
Pyetushkov arrived home in a perfectly agreeable frame of mind.
‘You couldn’t get any rolls,’ he said to his Onisim; ‘but here, I’ve got one, do you see?’
Onisim gave a bitter laugh.
The same day, in the evening, as Ivan Afanasiitch was undressing, he asked his servant, ‘Tell me, please, my lad, what’s the girl like at the baker’s, hey?’