‘Oh, well, it’s easy to talk.’
Pyetushkov was silent again.
‘Well, but how’s it to be, then, my lad?’
‘How? ... You ought to know best; you ‘re a gentleman.’
‘Oh, nonsense! come now!’
Onisim swayed complacently backwards and forwards.
‘Do you know Praskovia Ivanovna?’ he asked at last.
‘No. What Praskovia Ivanovna?’
‘Why, the baker woman!’
‘Oh yes, the baker woman. I’ve seen her; she’s very fat.’