sofa, and only twitched his shoulders now and then, and drew up his knees to his stomach. . .
Onisim did not leave his side all night. Towards morning Pyetushkov fell asleep, but he did not sleep long. At seven o'clock he got up from the sofa, pale, dishevelled, and exhausted, and asked for tea.
Onisim with amazing eagerness and speed brought the samovar.
'Ivan Afanasiitch,' he began at last, in a timid voice, 'your honour is not angry with me?'
'Why should I be angry with you, Onisim?' answered poor Pyetushkov. 'You were perfectly right yesterday, and I quite agreed with you in everything.'
'I only spoke through my devotion to you, Ivan Afanasiitch.'
'I know that'
Pyetushkov was silent and hung his head.
Onisim saw that things were in a bad way.
'Ivan Afanasiitch,' he said suddenly.
'Well?'
'Would you like me to fetch Vassilissa here?'
Pyetushkov flushed red.
'No, Onisim, I don't wish it. ('Yes, indeed! as if she would come!' he thought to himself.) One must be firm. It is all nonsense. Yesterday, I . . . It's a disgrace. You are right. One must cut it all short, once for all, as they say. Isn't that true?'
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