“Oh, my God! How mean this is!” Zvantzev’s capricious voice was heard.
Foma began to feel that he hated it, and him, and everybody, except Sasha, who awakened in him a certain uneasy feeling, which contained at once admiration for her and a fear lest she might do something unexpected and terrible.
“Brute!” shouted Zvantzev in a shrill voice, and Foma noticed that he struck the peasant on the chest, after which the peasant removed his cap humbly and stepped aside.
“Fo-o-ol!” cried Zvantzev, walking after him and lifting his hand.
Foma jumped to his feet and said threateningly, in a loud voice:
“Eh, you! Don’t touch him!”
“Wha-a-at?” Zvantzev turned around toward him.
“Stepan, come over here,” called Foma.
“Peasant!” Zvantzev hurled with contempt, looking at Foma.
Foma shrugged his shoulders and made a step toward him; but suddenly a thought flashed vividly through his mind! He smiled maliciously and inquired of Stepan, softly: