"Ekh, uncle, uncle,"—he articulated with a sigh, while the latter was taking his cap from its nail:—"dost thou remember what thou saidst to me on the eve of my wedding?"
"God's will rules all things, Akímushka."
"Dost thou remember how thou saidst to me that I was no fit mate for you peasants—and now see what a pass things have come to.... I myself have become as poor as a church mouse."
"A man can't make calculations against bad people,"—replied the old man;—"and as for him, the dishonest scoundrel, if any one were to teach him a good lesson, some gentleman, for instance, or any other power,—what cause would there be to fear him? The wolf recognised his prey."—And the old man put on his cap and departed.
Avdótya had but just returned from church when she was informed that her husband's uncle was inquiring for her. Up to that time she had very rarely seen him; he had not been in the habit of coming to their inn, and in general he bore the reputation of being a queer fellow; he was passionately fond of snuff, and preserved silence most of the time.
She went out to him.
"What dost thou want, Petróvitch? Has anything happened, pray?"
"Nothing has happened, Avdótya Aréfyevna; thy husband is asking for thee."
"Has he returned?"