‘Your tackle is broken off,’ I observed, and noticed the same moment that there was no sign of bait-tin nor worms near Martin Petrovitch.… And what sort of fishing could there be in September?
‘Broken off?’ he said, and he passed his hand over his face. ‘But it’s all the same!’
He dropped the rod in again.
‘Natalia Nikolaevna’s son?’ he asked me, after the lapse of two minutes, during which I had been gazing at him with secret bewilderment. Though he had grown terribly thinner, still he seemed a giant. But what rags he was dressed in, and how utterly he had gone to pieces altogether!
‘Yes,’ I answered, ‘I’m the son of Natalia Nikolaevna B.’
‘Is she well?’
‘My mother is quite well. She was very much hurt at your refusal,’ I added; ‘she did not at all expect you would not wish to come and see her.’
Martin Petrovitch’s head sank on his breast. ‘Have you been there?’ he asked, with a motion of his head.
‘Where?’