he mercilessly persecuted him, put him to shame.
And . . . thirdly. . . Alas! read further, kindly reader.
V
One day Pyetushkov (who for the reasons given above found little comfort outside Praskovia Ivanovna's doors) was sitting in Vassilissa's room at the back, and was busying himself over some home-brewed concoction, something in the way of jam or syrup. The mistress of the house was not at home. Vassilissa was sitting in the shop singing.
There came a knock at the little pane. Vassilissa got up, went to the window, uttered a little shriek, giggled, and began whispering with some one. On going back to her place, she sighed, and then fell to singing louder than ever.
'Who was that you were talking to?' Pyetushkov asked her.
Vassilissa went on singing carelessly.
'Vassilissa, do you hear? Vassilissa!'
'What do you want?'
'Whom were you talking to?'
'What's that to you?'
'I only asked.'
Pyetushkov came out of the back room in a
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