'Now he'll have a nap,' observed Cucumber, coming out behind me. 'He's terribly knocked up to-day—he went to the grave early this morning.'
'To whose grave?'
'To Agrafena Ivanovna's, to pay his devotions. . . She is buried in our parish cemetery here; it'll be four miles from here. Vassily Fomitch visits it every week without fail. Indeed, it was he who buried her and put the fence up at his own expense.'
'Has she been dead long?'
'Well, let's think—twenty years about'
'Was she a friend of his, or what?'
'Her whole life, you may say, she passed with him . . . really. I myself, I must own, never knew the lady, but they do say . . . what there was between them . . . well, well, well! Sir,' the deacon added hurriedly, seeing I had turned away, 'wouldn't you like to give me something for another drop, for it's time I was home in my hut and rolled up in my blanket?'
I thought it useless to question Cucumber further, so gave him a few coppers, and set off homewards.
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