'Why, such as hang about fairs?'
'Yes, there are in Moscow....'
'Well, that's good news. I like gypsies, damn my soul! I like 'em....'
And there was a gleam of reckless merriment in Piotr Petrovitch's eyes. But suddenly he turned round on the bench, then seemed to ponder, dropped his eyes, and held out his empty glass to me.
'Give me some of your rum,' he said.'
'But the tea's all finished.'
'Never mind, as it is, without tea... Ah--h!' Karataev laid his head in his hands and leaned his elbows on the table. I looked at him without speaking, and although I was expecting the sentimental exclamations, possibly even the tears of which the inebriate are so lavish, yet when he raised his head, I was, I must own, impressed by the profoundly mournful expression of his face.
'What's wrong with you?'
'Nothing.... I was thinking of old times. An anecdote that... I would tell it you, but I am ashamed to trouble you....'
'What nonsense!'