she might know that I was hurt. There's love for you! And she did not even ask if I were well. Never even said, "Is Ivan Afanasiitch quite well?" She hasn't seen me for two whole days—and not a sign. . . She's even again, maybe, thought fit to meet that Bub——— Lucky fellow. Ouf, devil take it, what a fool I am!'
Pyetushkov got up, paced up and down the room in silence, stood still, knitted his brows slightly and scratched his neck. 'However,' he said aloud, 'I'll go to see her. I must see what she's about there. I must make her feel ashamed. Most certainly . . . I'll go. Onisim! my clothes.'
'Well,' he mused as he dressed, 'we shall see what comes of it. She may, I dare say, be angry with me. And after all, a man keeps coming and coming, and all of a sudden, for no rhyme or reason, goes and gives up coming. Well, we shall see.'
Ivan Afanasiitch went out of the house, and made his way to the baker's shop. He stopped at the little gate, he wanted to straighten himself out and set himself to rights. . . Pyetushkov clutched at the folds of his coat with both hands, and almost pulled them out altogether. . . Convulsively he twisted his tightly compressed neck, fastened the top hook of his collar, drew a deep breath. . .
'Why are you standing there?' Praskovia
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