"Silence!"
"Don't you dare to insult the woman I am going to marry, my future wife," cried David with all his might.
"Going to marry! your wife!" repeated my father, his eyes rolling. "Your wife! ho! ho! ho!" ("Ha! ha! ha!" echoed my aunt outside the door.) "How old are you? A year less one week has he been in this world—he's hardly weaned yet—and he wants to get married! I shall—"
"Let me go! let me go!" whispered Raissa, turning to the door.
"I shall not ask your permission," shouted David, supporting himself on his hands, "but my own father's, who will be back to-day or to-morrow. He can command me, not you; and as for my age, both Raissa and I can wait. You can say what you please: we shall wait."
"David, think a moment," interrupted my father: "take care what you say. You are beside yourself: you have forgotten all respect."
David grasped his shirt where it lay across his breast. "Whatever you may say," he repeated.
"Stop his mouth, Porphyr Petrovitch—silence him!" hissed my aunt from the door; "and as for this baggage, this—"
But something strange cut my aunt's eloquence short: her voice became suddenly silent, and in its place was heard another, weak and hoarse from age. "Brother!" exclaimed this weak voice—"Christian souls!"