With which, throwing himself upon a bench, the deacon slapped his knee with a book which he had in his hands, and put to me the query:
"Should you care to have a dram of gorielka? [Another name for vodka.]
"No," I replied. "At all events, not here."
"Indeed?" the deacon cried, unabashed. "But come, a bottle of the stuff is here, in my very pocket."
"This is no place in which to be drinking."
For a moment the deacon said nothing. Then he muttered:
"True, true. So let us adjourn to the forecourt.... Yes, what you say is no more than the truth."
"Had you not better remain seated where you are, and begin the reading?"
"No, I am going to do no such thing. YOU shall do the reading. Tonight I, I—well I am not very well, for I have been drinking a little."
And, thrusting the book into my stomach, he sank his head upon his breast, and fell to swaying it ponderously up and down.