"What makes you want to do that, master, really?!"—replied Lukyánitch with displeasure.—"What is there for you to look at? Chests, old crockery ... 't is a store-room, and nothing more...."
"All the same, show it to me, please, old man,"—I said, although I was inwardly ashamed of my indecent persistence.—"I should like, you see .... I should like to have just such a house myself at home, in my village ...."
I was ashamed: I could not complete the sentence I had begun.
Lukyánitch stood with his grey head bent on his breast, and stared at me askance in a strange sort of way.
"Show it,"—I said.
"Well, as you like,"—he replied at last, got the key, and reluctantly opened the door.
I glanced into the store-room. There really was nothing noteworthy about it. On the walls hung old portraits with gloomy, almost black countenances, and vicious eyes. The floor was strewn with all sorts of rubbish.
"Well, have you seen all you want?"—asked Lukyánitch, gruffly.
"Yes; thanks!"—I hastily replied.
He slammed to the door. I went out into the anteroom, and from the anteroom into the courtyard.