'Remember me to Tihon Ivanitch, and tell him...'
Tchertop-hanov wrung his hands. 'No, you are talking nonsense--you are not going! Your Yaff may wait for you in vain!'
'Mr. Yaff,' Masha was beginning....
'A fine Mister Yaff!' Tchertop-hanov mimicked her. 'He's an underhand rascal, a low cur--that's what he is--and a phiz like an ape's!'
For fully half-an-hour Tchertop-hanov was struggling with Masha. He came close to her, he fell back, he shook his fists at her, he bowed down before her, he wept, he scolded.
...'I can't,' repeated Masha; 'I am so sad at heart... devoured by weariness.'
Little by little her face assumed such an indifferent, almost drowsy expression, that Tchertop-hanov asked her if they had not drugged her with laudanum.
'It's weariness,' she said for the tenth time.
'Then what if I kill you?' he cried suddenly, and he pulled the pistol out of his pocket.
Masha smiled; her face brightened.