“I am not sorry for the money.”
“You should have tried to earn even a tenth part of it, then speak.”
“May I come in?” came Luba’s voice from behind the door.
“Yes, step right in,” said the father.
“Will you have lunch now?” she asked, entering.
“Let us have it.”
She walked up to the sideboard and soon the dishes were rattling. Yakov Tarasovich looked at her, moved his lips, and suddenly striking Foma’s knee with his hand, he said to him:
“That’s the way, my godson! Think.”
Foma responded with a smile and thought: “But he’s clever—cleverer than my father.”
But another voice within him immediately replied: