"That's nothing," he said.
He felt unbearably awkward as he listened to the somewhat rude yet kindly voice. He was afraid that after all the writer would abuse him and drive him out.
"There, you see how strangely we meet this time, eh?"
"Nothing else?" asked Yevsey confused.
"Nothing else. But I believe you are tired. Sit down. Rest."
"I must be going."
"Very well. As you please. Well, thank you. Good-by."
He extended his large hand with reddish wool on the fingers. Yevsey touched it cautiously.
"Permit me also to tell you my life," he requested unexpectedly to himself. The instant he had distinctly uttered these words, he thought, "This is the very man to whom I ought to speak, if Timofey Vasilyevich himself, such a wise person and better than everybody, respects him." Recalling Maklakov, Yevsey looked at the window, and for a moment grew anxious.
"No matter," he said to himself. "It's not the first time he's had to freeze."