'You tell him, your master, that I'm . . .; say, not angry with him, but that . . .'
She stammered. 'We understand,' responded Onisim, and he got up from his seat. 'We understand. Thanks for the entertainment.'
'Come in again some day.'
'All right, all right.'
Onisim approached the door. The fat woman came into the room.
'Good evening to you, Onisim Sergeitch,' she said in a peculiar chant.
'Good evening to you, Praskovia Ivanovna,' he said in the same sing-song.
Both stood still for a little while facing each other.
'Well, good day to you, Praskovia Ivanovna,' Onisim chanted out again.
'Well, good day to you, Onisim Sergeitch,' she responded in the same sing-song.
Onisim arrived home. His master was lying on his bed, gazing at the ceiling.
'Where have you been?'
'Where have I been?' . . . (Onisim had the habit of repeating reproachfully the last words of every question.) 'I've been about your business.'
'What business?'
'Why, don't you know? . . . I've been to see Vassilissa.'
Pyetushkov blinked and turned over on his bed.
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