covered himself. ' It almost made my tooth ache! Now, my dear Vassily Fomitch, get up—it's time to be off!'
The brigadier got up from the bench.
'Do you live far from here?' I asked Cucumber.
'No, our gentleman lives not far . . . it won't be as much as a mile.'
'Will you allow me to accompany you?' I said, addressing the brigadier. I felt disinclined to let him go.
He looked at me, and with that peculiar, stately, courteous, and rather affected smile, which—I don't know how it is with others—to me always suggests powder, French full-skirted coats with paste buttons—the eighteenth century, in fact—he replied, with the old-fashioned drawl, that he would be 'high-ly de-lighted' . . . and at once sank back into his former condition again. The grand gentleman of the old Catherine days flickered up in him for an instant and vanished.
Narkiz was surprised at my intention; but I paid no attention to the disapproving shake of his long-eared cap, and walked out of the garden with the brigadier, who was supported by Cucumber. The old man moved fairly quickly, with a motion as though he were on stilts.
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