"It is true what they say, that all the gentry are an abomination," she went on. "They make children and then throw them in the swamp, like puppies. What does it matter to them? They owe no account to anybody. Is there no God in Heaven? Even a wolf would not act like that."
Porfiry Vladimirych felt like a man sitting on pins and needles. He restrained himself for a long time, but finally could stand it no longer and said through clenched teeth:
"This is the third day that I've been listening to your talk."
"Well, why should you do all the talking? Other people have a right to say a word, too. Yes, sir! You've had a child. What have you done with it? I bet you let him rot in the hands of a wretched peasant woman in a dirty hut. I suppose the baby is lying somewhere in filth, sucking at a bottle turned sour, with no one to take care of it, and feed and clothe it."
She shed tears and dried her eyes with the end of her neckerchief.
"The Pogorelka lady was right; she said it's horrible here with you. It is horrible. No pleasures, no joy, nothing but mean, underhand ways. Prisoners in jail are better off. At least, if I had a baby now, there would be something to amuse me. But you have taken it away from me."
Porfiry Vladimirych sat shaking his head in torture. From time to time he groaned.
"Oh, how painful!" he finally said.
"Painful? Well, you have made the bed, lie on it. Upon my word, I shall go to Moscow and have a look at my dear little Volodya. Volodya, Volodya! Da-a-ar-ling! Master, shall I take a trip to Moscow?"
"It's no use," answered Porfiry Vladimirych in a hollow voice.