‘I’ll tell you. You comprehend that after all ... that has passed ... after such, so to say, behaviour (Pyetushkov was a little confused) ... in a word ... But, pray, don’t be angry with me, though.’
‘Certainly not, sir.’
‘On the contrary, enter into my position, Praskovia Ivanovna.’
‘Certainly, sir.’
‘You’re a reasonable woman, you’ll understand of yourself, that ... that I can’t go on coming to see you any more.’
‘Certainly, sir,’ Praskovia Ivanovna repeated slowly.
‘I assure you I greatly regret it; I confess it is positively painful to me, genuinely painful ...’
‘You know best, sir,’ Praskovia Ivanovna rejoined serenely. ‘It’s for you to decide, sir. And, oh, if you’ll allow me, I’ll give you your little account, sir.’
Pyetushkov had not at all anticipated such a prompt acquiescence. He had not desired acquiescence at all; he had only wanted to frighten Praskovia Ivanovna, and above all Vassilissa. He felt wretched.
‘I know,’ he began, ‘this will not be disagreeable to Vassilissa; on the contrary, I believe she will be glad.’