Mr. Bublitsyn dilated his nostrils, and slowly plunged his hands into his pockets.
Strange to relate, Ivan Afanasiitch felt something of the nature of jealousy. He began moving restlessly in his chair, burst into explosive laughter at nothing at all, suddenly blushed, yawned, and, as he yawned, his lower jaw twitched a little. Bublitsyn smoked three more pipes, and withdrew. Ivan Afanasiitch went to the window, sighed, and called for something to drink.
Onisim set a glass of kvas on the table, glanced severely at his master, leaned back against the door, and hung his head dejectedly.
'What are you so thoughtful about?' his master asked him genially, but with some inward trepidation.
'What am I thinking about?' retorted Onisim; 'what am I thinking about? . . . it's always about you.'
'About me!'
'Of course it's about you.'
'Why, what is it you are thinking?'
'Why, this is what I'm thinking.' (Here Onisim took a pinch of snuff) 'You ought to be ashamed, sir—you ought to be ashamed of yourself.'
'Ashamed?'
'Yes, ashamed. . . Look at Mr. Bublitsyn, Ivan Afanasiitch. . . Tell me if he's not a fine fellow, now.'
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