“Oho!”
And with his whip he lightly flicked the horse, which was beginning to prick up its ears, snort, and shy. It was frightened by the shadow of a huge willow bush which fell across the road, dimly illuminated by the moon.
“And shalt thou dance with Másha?”—Nadézhda Alexyéevna, in her turn, questioned her brother.
“Yes,” he said indifferently.
“Yes! yes!”—repeated Nadézhda Alexyéevna, reproachfully.—“You men,”—she added, after a brief pause,—“positively do not deserve to be loved by nice women.”
“Dost think so? Well, and that sour-visaged Petersburger—does he deserve it?”
“Sooner than thou.”
“Really!”
And Piótr Alexyéitch recited, with a sigh:
“What a mission, O Creator,
To be ... the brother of a grown-up sister!”