“Yes.”
And Vladímir Sergyéitch assumed a rather severe mien, as though with the object of saying to Véretyeff: “My good fellow, don’t take it into thy head to ask me to present thee to my wife.”
Véretyeff understood him, apparently. An indifferent sneer barely flitted across his lips.
“And how is your sister?”—inquired Vladímir Sergyéitch.—“Where is she?”
“I cannot tell you for certain. She must be in Moscow. I have not received any letters from her this long time!”
“Is her husband alive?”
“Yes.”
“And Mr. Ipátoff?”
“I don’t know; probably he is alive also; but he may be dead.”
“And that gentleman—what the deuce was his name?—Bodryakóff,—what of him?”