'To be sure,' responded Pyetushkov; 'but all the same . . . And it's improper to laugh at your elders. . . It's not right. Moreover, it's as well in certain cases . . . But where's my pipe?'
'Here's your pipe.'
Pyetushkov began smoking.
VII
Several days slipped by again, apparently rather tranquilly. But a storm was getting nearer. Pyetushkov suffered tortures, was jealous, never took his eyes off Vassilissa, kept an alarmed watch over her, annoyed her horribly. Behold, one evening, Vassilissa dressed herself with more care than usual, and, seizing a favourable instant, sallied off to make a visit somewhere. Night came on, she had not returned. Pyetushkov at sunset went home to his lodgings, and at eight o'clock in the morning ran to the baker's shop. . . , Vassilissa had not come in. With an inexpressible sinking at his heart, he waited for her right up to dinner-time. . . They sat down to the table without her. . .
'Whatever can have become of her?' Praskovia Ivanovna observed serenely. . .
'You spoil her, you simply spoil her utterly!' Pyetushkov repeated, in despair.
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