"He must be very drunk," thought Yevsey.
"Do you know who lives in that house?" asked Maklakov, looking back.
"No."
"Mironov, the writer. Do you remember him?"
"I do."
"Well, I should think you would. He made you out a fool so simply."
"Yes," agreed Yevsey.
They walked slowly with noiseless tread. The narrow street was quiet, deserted, and cold.
"Let's go back," continued Maklakov. Then he adjusted his hat on his head, buttoned his overcoat, and declared thoughtfully, "Brother, I am going away—to Argentine. That's in America."
Klimkov heard something hopeless, dismal in his words, and he, too, began to feel gloomy and awkward.