"Why, you yourself took it from the postman, you scoundrel!"
"It is where you put it; how should I know anything about it?" said Zakhár, beginning to rummage about among the papers and various things that littered the table.
"You never know anything at all. There, look on the basket. No, see if it hasn't been thrown on the sofa.—There, the back of that sofa hasn't been mended yet. Why have you not got the carpenter to mend it? 'Twas you who broke it. You never think of anything!"
"I didn't break it," retorted Zakhár; "it broke itself; it was not meant to last forever; it had to break some time."
Ílya Ílyitch did not consider it necessary to refute this argument. He contented himself with asking:—
"Have you found it yet?"
"Here are some letters."
"But they are not the right ones."
"Well, there's nothing else," said Zakhár.
"Very good, be gone," said Ílya Ílyitch impatiently. "I am going to get up. I will find it."