“Awake? That’s true. I’ve awakened,” said Foma, thoughtfully and, throwing his arm behind his head, went on: “That’s why I am asking you. What sort of man do you think I am?”
“A man with a drunken headache,” answered Sasha, yawning.
“Aleksandra!” exclaimed Foma, beseechingly, “don’t talk nonsense! Tell me conscientiously, what do you think of me?”
“I don’t think anything!” she said drily. “Why are you bothering me with nonsense?”
“Is this nonsense?” said Foma, sadly. “Eh, you devils! This is the principal thing. The most essential thing to me.”
He heaved a deep sigh and became silent. After a minute’s silence, Sasha began to speak in her usual, indifferent voice:
“Tell him who he is, and why he is such as he is? Did you ever see! Is it proper to ask such questions of our kind of women? And on what ground should I think about each and every man? I have not even time to think about myself, and, perhaps, I don’t feel like doing it at all.”
Foma laughed drily and said:
“I wish I were like this—and had no desires for anything.”
Then the woman raised her head from the pillow, looked into Foma’s face and lay down again, saying: