bent a little forward; her eyes closed, her mouth slightly opened, her hands fell on her knees; she was dozing. Pyetushkov read quickly, inarticulately, in a thick voice; he raised his eyes . . .
'Vassilissa, are you asleep?'
She started, rubbed her face, and stretched. Pyetushkov felt angry with her and with himself . . .
'It's dull,' said Vassilissa lazily.
'I tell you what, would you like me to read you poetry?'
'What say?'
'Poetry . . . good poetry.'
'No, that's enough, really.'
Pyetushkov hurriedly picked up Kozlov's poem, jumped up, crossed the room, ran impulsively up to Vassilissa, and began reading. Vassilissa let her head drop backwards, spread out her hands, stared into Ivan Afanasiitch's face, and suddenly went off into a loud harsh guffaw . . . she fairly rolled about with laughing.
Ivan Afanasiitch flung the book on the floor in his annoyance. Vassilissa went on laughing.
'Why, what are you laughing at, silly?'
Vassilissa roared more than ever.
'Laugh away, laugh away,' Pyetushkov muttered between his teeth.
Vassilissa held her sides, gasping.
'But what is it, idiot?'
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