‘Now, come ... you really go ... too far ...’ Ivan Afanasiitch said hesitatingly, clutching his pipe.
‘Too far, indeed, Ivan Afanasiitch, too far, you say! Judge for yourself. Here again, with Vassilissa ... why couldn’t you ...’
‘But what are you thinking about, Onisim,’ Pyetushkov interrupted miserably.
‘I know what I’m thinking about. But there—I’d better let you alone! What can you do? Only fancy ... there you ...’
Ivan Afanasiitch got up.
‘There, there, if you please, you hold your tongue,’ he said quickly, seeming to be searching for Onisim with his eyes; ‘I shall really, you know ... I ... what do you mean by it, really? You’d better help me dress.’
Onisim slowly drew off Ivan Afanasiitch’s greasy Tartar dressing-gown, gazed with fatherly commiseration at his master, shook his head, put him on his coat, and fell to beating him about the back with a brush.
Pyetushkov went out, and after a not very protracted stroll about the crooked streets of the town, found himself facing the baker’s shop. A queer smile was playing about his lips.
He had hardly time to look twice at the too well-known ‘establishment,’ when suddenly the little gate opened, and Vassilissa ran out with a yellow kerchief on her head and a jacket flung after the Russian fashion on her shoulders. Ivan Afanasiitch at once overtook her.
‘Where are you going, my dear?’