"What sins hast thou, Semyónitch?"—articulated Avdótya, timidly.
"Well, wife, I know what they are."
"But in whose care wilt thou leave me, Semyónitch? How am I to live without a husband?"
"In whose care shall I leave thee? Ekh, Aréfyevna, how thou sayest that, forsooth! Much need hast thou of a husband like me, and an old man and a ruined one to boot. The idea! Thou has dispensed with me before, thou canst dispense with me hereafter also. And what property we have left thou mayest take for thyself, curse it!...."
"As thou wilt, Semyónitch,"—replied Avdótya, sadly;—"thou knowest best about that."
"Exactly so. Only, don't think that I am angry with thee, Aréfyevna.
"No, what 's the use of being angry, when .... I ought to have discovered how things stood earlier in the day. I myself am to blame—and I am punished."—(Akím heaved a sigh.)—"As you have made your bed, so you must lie upon it.[44] I am advanced in years, and 't is time for me to be thinking of my soul. The Lord Himself has brought me to my senses. Here was I, seest thou, an old fool, who wanted to live at his ease with a young wife.... No, brother—old man, first do thou pray, and beat thy brow against the earth, and be patient, and fast.... And now, go, my mother. I am very tired and I will get a bit of sleep."
And Akím stretched himself out, grunting on the bench.
Avdótya started to say something, stood for a while gazing at him, then turned and went away....
"Well, did n't he thrash thee?"—Petróvitch asked her, as he sat, all bent double, on the earthen bank, when she came alongside of him. Avdótya passed him in silence.—"See there now, he did n't beat her,"—said the old man to himself, as he grinned, ruffled up his hair, and took a pinch of snuff.