'Oh no . . . but . . .'
My grandmother knit her brows.
'There is a person living with me . . . of the male sex . . . a comrade, a poor friend, from whom I have never parted . . . for . . . let me see . . . ten years now.'
'A relation of yours?'
'No, not a relation—a friend. As to work, there can be no possible hindrance occasioned by him,' Baburin made haste to add, as though foreseeing objections. 'He lives at my cost, occupies the same room with me; he is more likely to be of use, as he is well educated—speaking without flattery, extremely so, in fact—and his morals are exemplary.'
My grandmother heard Baburin out, chewing her lips and half closing her eyes.
'He lives at your expense?'
'Yes.'
'You keep him out of charity?'
'As an act of justice . . . as it's the duty of one poor man to help another poor man.'
'Indeed! It's the first time I've heard that. I had supposed till now that that was rather the duty of rich people.'
'For the rich, if I may venture to say so, it is an entertainment . . . but for such as we . . .'
'Well, well, that's enough, that's enough,' my grandmother cut him short; and after a moment's thought she queried, speaking
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