'Yes, sir.'
The night passed somehow. In the morning Onisim, as usual, gave Pyetushkov on the blue sprigged plate a new white roll. Ivan Afanasiitch looked out of window and asked Onisim:
'You've been to the baker's shop?'
'Who's to go, if I don't?'
'Ah!'
Pyetushkov became plunged in meditation.
'Tell me, please, did you see any one there?'
'Of course I did.'
'Whom did you see there, now, for instance?'
'Why, of course, Vassilissa.'
Ivan Afanasiitch was silent. Onisim cleared the table, and was just going out of the room . . .
'Onisim,' Pyetushkov cried faintly.
'What is it?'
'Er . . . did she ask after me?'
'Of course she didn't.'
Pyetushkov set his teeth. 'Yes,' he thought, 'that's all it's worth, her love, indeed. . .' His head dropped. 'Absurd I was, to be sure,' he thought again. 'A fine idea to read her poetry. A girl like that! Why, she's a fool! Why, she's good for nothing but to lie on the stove and eat pancakes. Why, she's a post, a perfect post; an uneducated workgirl.'
'She's never come,' he whispered, two hours later, still sitting in the same place, 'she's never come. To think of it; why, she could see that I left her out of temper; why,
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