I stopped. 'Come,' I thought, 'let's have a look at the horses of the celebrated steppes breeder, Mr. Tchornobai.'
I was about to go in at the gate, but found that, contrary to the common usage, it was locked. I knocked.
'Who's there?… A customer?' whined a woman's voice.
'Yes.'
'Coming, sir, coming.'
The gate was opened. I beheld a peasant-woman of fifty, bareheaded, in boots, and a sheepskin worn open.
'Please to come in, kind sir, and I'll go at once, and tell Anastasei
Ivanitch … Nazar, hey, Nazar!'
'What?' mumbled an old man's voice from the stable.
'Get a horse ready; here's a customer.'
The old woman ran into the house.