'But I say'—(here Onisim grinned)—'I say, he wrote you a letter, didn't he?'
'Yes, he did.'
Onisim shook his head with an extraordinarily self-satisfied air.
'So he did, did he?' he said huskily, with a smile. 'Well, and what did he say in his letter to you?'
'Oh, all sorts of things. "I didn't mean anything. Madam, Vassilissa Timofyevna," says he, "don't you think anything of it; don't you be offended, madam," and a lot more like that he wrote. . . But I say,' she added after a brief silence: 'what's he like?'
'He's all right,' Onisim responded indifferently.
'Does he get angry?'
'He get angry! Not he. Why, do you like him?'
Vassilissa looked down and giggled in her sleeve.
'Come,' grumbled Onisim.
'Oh, what's that to you, Onisim Sergeitch?'
'Oh, come, I tell you.'
'Well,' Vassilissa brought out at last, 'he's . . . a gentleman. Of course . . . I . . . and besides; he . . . you know yourself . . .'
'Of course I do,' Onisim observed solemnly.
'Of course you're aware, to be sure, Onisim Sergeitch.' . . . Vassilissa was obviously becoming agitated.
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