with huge striped epaulettes. Pyetushkov gazed a long while at Onisim without speaking, then told him to bring him his new coat. Onisim, with some surprise, obeyed. Pyetushkov dressed, and carefully drew on his chamois-leather gloves.
'You needn't go to the baker's to-day,' said he with some hesitation; 'I'm going myself, . . . it's on my way.'
'Yes, sir,' responded Onisim, as abruptly as if some one had just given him a shove from behind.
Pyetushkov set off, reached the baker's shop, tapped at the window. The fat woman opened the pane.
'Give me a roll, please,' Ivan Afanasiitch articulated slowly.
The fat woman stuck out an arm, bare to the shoulder—a huge arm, more like a leg than an arm—and thrust the hot bread just under his nose.
Ivan Afanasiitch stood some time under the window, walked once or twice up and down the street, glanced into the courtyard, and at last, ashamed of his childishness, returned home with the roll in his hand. He felt ill at ease the whole day, and even in the evening, contrary to his habit, did not drop into conversation with Onisim.
The next morning it was Onisim who went for the roll.
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