Like one frantic, Pyetushkov jumped up from the sofa . . . but, to the amazement of Onisim, who was already lifting both hands to the level of his cheeks, he sat down again, as though some one had cut away his legs from under him. . . Tears were rolling down his pale face, a tuft of hair stood up straight on the top of his head, his eyes looked dimmed . . . his drawn lips were quivering . . . his head sank on his breast.
Onisim looked at Pyetushkov and plumped heavily down on his knees.
'Dear master, Ivan Afanasiitch,' he cried, 'your honour! Be pleased to punish me. I'm a fool. I've troubled you, Ivan Afanasiitch. . . . How did I dare! Be pleased to punish me, your honour. . . . It's not worth your while to weep over my silly words . . . dear master. Ivan Afanasiitch . . .'
But Pyetushkov did not even look at his servant; he turned away and buried himself in the corner of the sofa again.
Onisim got up, went up to his master, stood over him, and twice he tugged at his own hair.
'Wouldn't you like to undress, sir . . . you should go to bed . . . you should take some raspberry tea . . . don't grieve, please your honour. . . . It's only half a trouble, it's all nothing . . . it'll be all right in the end,' he said to him every two minutes. . .
But Pyetushkov did not get up from the
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