‘Does he get angry?’
‘He get angry! Not he. Why, do you like him?’
Vassilissa looked down and giggled in her sleeve.
‘Come,’ grumbled Onisim.
‘Oh, what’s that to you, Onisim Sergeitch?’
‘Oh, come, I tell you.’
‘Well,’ Vassilissa brought out at last, ‘he’s ... a gentleman. Of course ... I ... and besides; he ... you know yourself ...’
‘Of course I do,’ Onisim observed solemnly.
‘Of course you’re aware, to be sure, Onisim Sergeitch.’ ... Vassilissa was obviously becoming agitated.
‘You tell him, your master, that I’m ...; say, not angry with him, but that ...’