And Mr. Zvyerkoff, without finishing his sentence, turned away his head, and, wrapping himself more closely into his cloak, manfully repressed his involuntary emotion.
The reader now probably understands why I looked with sympathetic interest at Arina.
'Have you long been married to the miller?' I asked her at last.
'Two years.'
'How was it? Did your master allow it?'
'They bought my freedom.'
'Who?'
'Savely Alexyevitch.'
'Who is that?'
'My husband.' (Yermolaï smiled to himself.) 'Has my master perhaps spoken to you of me?' added Arina, after a brief silence.