“Akh! Egór Kapítonitch is a dead man. His wife has died.”
“It cannot be!”
“She died in twenty-four hours, of cholera. You wouldn’t know him now, he has become simply unrecognisable. ‘Without Matryóna Márkovna,’ he says, ‘life is a burden to me. I shall die,’ he says, ‘and God be thanked,’ he says; ‘I don’t wish to live,’ says he. Yes, he’s done for, poor fellow.”
“Akh! good heavens, how unpleasant that is!”—exclaimed Vladímir Sergyéitch.—“Poor Egór Kapítonitch!”
All were silent for a time.
“I hear that your pretty neighbour has married,”—remarked Vladímir Sergyéitch, flushing faintly.
“Nadézhda Alexyéevna? Yes, she has.”
Ipátoff darted a sidelong glance at Vladímir Sergyéitch.
“Certainly ... certainly, she has married and gone away.”