‘Kvas and effervescing drinks,’ pursued Praskovia Ivanovna, holding the counters apart on the frame not with her first, but her third finger, ‘half a rouble in silver. Sugar and rolls for tea, half a rouble. Four packets of tobacco bought by your orders, eighty kopecks in silver. To the tailor Kuprian Apollonov ...’
Ivan Afanasiitch suddenly raised his head, put out his hand and mixed up the counters.
‘What are you about, my good man?’ cried Praskovia Ivanovna. ‘Don’t you trust me?’
‘Praskovia Ivanovna,’ replied Pyetushkov, with a hurried smile, ‘I’ve thought better of it. I was only, you know ... joking. We’d better remain friends and go on in the old way. What nonsense it is! How can we separate—tell me that, please?’
Praskovia Ivanovna looked down and made him no reply.
‘Come, we’ve been talking nonsense, and there’s an end of it,’ pursued Ivan Afanasiitch, walking up and down the room, rubbing his hands, and, as it were, resuming his ancient rights. ‘Amen! and now I’d better have a pipe.’
Praskovia Ivanovna still did not move from her place....
‘I see you are angry with me,’ said Pyetushkov.
‘I’ve offended you, perhaps. Well! well! forgive me generously.’
‘How could you offend me, my good sir? No offence about it.... Only, please, sir,’ added Praskovia Ivanovna, bowing, ‘be so good as not to go on coming to us.’