'So you were making an appointment with him in the morning at the window—eh? eh?'
'He asked me to come.'
'And so you went. . . Thanks very much, my girl, thanks very much!' Pyetushkov made Vassilissa a low bow.
'But, Ivan Afanasiitch, you're maybe fancying . . .'
'You'd better not talk to me! And a pretty fool I am! There's nothing to make an out-cry for! You may make friends with any one you like. I've nothing to do with you. So there! I don't want to know you even.'
Vassilissa got up.
'That's for you to say, Ivan Afanasiitch.'
'Where are you going?'
'Why, you yourself . . .'
'I'm not sending you away,' Pyetushkov interrupted her.
'Oh no, Ivan Afanasiitch. . . What's the use of my stopping here?'
Pyetushkov let her get as far as the door.
'So you're going, Vassilissa?'
'You keep on abusing me.'
'I abuse you! You've no fear of God, Vassilissa! When have I abused you? Come, come, say when?'
'Why! Just this minute weren't you all but beating me?'
'Vassilissa, it's wicked of you. Really, it's downright wicked.'
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