‘Of course, of course. Well, did you like it? Roslavlev,’ added Tarhov, addressing me.
‘Yes. Only I think Yury Miloslavsky is much better. Our madame is very strict about books. She says they hinder our working. For, to her thinking ...’
‘But, I say, Yury Miloslavsky’s not equal to Pushkin’s Gipsies? Eh? Musa Pavlovna?’ Tarhov broke in with a smile.
‘No, indeed! The Gipsies ...’ she murmured slowly. ‘Oh yes, another thing, Vladimir Nikolaitch; don’t come to-morrow ... you know where.’
‘Why not?’
‘It’s impossible.’
‘But why?’
The girl shrugged her shoulders, and all at once, as though she had received a sudden shove, got up from her chair.
‘Why, Musa, Musotchka,’ Tarhov expostulated plaintively. ‘Stay a little!’
‘No, no, I can’t.’ She went quickly to the door, took hold of the handle....