‘Yes, yes ... Piotr Petrovitch.’
‘And do you know him?’
‘Rather!’ responded Vassilissa, with a wag of her head.
Pyetushkov, without a word, paced ten times up and down the room.
‘I say, Vassilissa,’ he said at last, ‘that is, how do you know him?’
‘How do I know him? ... I know him ... He’s such a nice gentleman.’
‘How do you mean nice, though? how nice? how nice?’
Vassilissa gazed at Ivan Afanasiitch.
‘Nice,’ she said slowly and in perplexity. ‘You know what I mean.’
Pyetushkov bit his lips and began again pacing the room.