“You!” said Yozhov in an undertone, tossing up his head, and staring at Foma angrily and wildly. “Keep quiet! You, the devil take you. Lie down and sleep! You monster. Nightmare. Oh!”
And he threatened Foma with his fist. Then he filled the glass with more brandy, and emptied it again.
A few minutes later Foma lay undressed on the lounge, and, with half-shut eyes, followed Yozhov who sat by the table in an awkward pose. He stared at the floor, and his lips were quietly moving. Foma was astonished, he could not make out why Yozhov had become angry at him. It could not be because he had been ordered to move out. For it was he himself who had been shouting.
“Oh devil!” whispered Yozhov, and gnashed his teeth.
Foma quietly lifted his head from the pillow. Yozhov deeply and noisily sighing, again stretched out his hand toward the bottle. Then Foma said to him softly:
“Let’s go to some hotel. It isn’t late yet.”
Yozhov looked at him, and, rubbing his head with his hands, began to laugh strangely. Then he rose from his chair and said to Foma curtly:
“Dress yourself!”
And seeing how clumsily and slowly he turned on the lounge, Yozhov shouted with anger and impatience:
“Well, be quicker! You personification of stupidity. You symbolical cart-shaft.”