'Why, what use would reading and writing be to us, Ivan Afanasiitch?'
'What use? You could read books.'
'But what good is there in books?'
'All sorts of good. . . . I tell you what, if you like, I'll bring you a book.'
'But I can't read, you see, Ivan Afanasiitch.'
'I'll read to you.'
'But, I say, won't it be dull?'
'Nonsense! dull! On the contrary, it's the best thing to get rid of dulness.'
'Maybe you'll read stories, then.'
'You shall see to-morrow.'
In the evening Pyetushkov returned home, and began rummaging in his boxes. He found several odd numbers of the Library of Good Reading, five grey Moscow novels, Nazarov's arithmetic, a child's geography with a globe on the title-page, the second part of Keydanov's history, two dream-books, an almanack for the year 1819, two numbers of Galatea, Kozlov's Natalia Dolgorukaia, and the first part of Roslavlev. He pondered a long while which to choose, and finally made up his mind to take Kozlov's poem, and Roslavlev.
Next day Pyetushkov dressed in haste, put both the books under the lapel of his coat, went to the baker's shop, and began reading aloud Zagoskin's novel. Vassilissa sat without moving; at first she smiled, then seemed to become absorbed in thought . . . then she
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