'And so we are to part, Praskovia Ivanovna.'
'If so it must be, sir. Things do turn out so. Twelve samovars at ten kopecks each . . .'
'But you might just tell me, Praskovia Ivanovna, where it was Vassilissa went, and what it was she . . .'
'Oh, I never asked her, sir. . . One rouble twenty kopecks in silver.'
Ivan Afanasiitch sank into meditation.
'Kvas and effervescing drinks,' pursued Praskovia Ivanovna, holding the counters apart on the frame not with her first, but her third finger, 'half a rouble in silver. Sugar and rolls for tea, half a rouble. Four packets of tobacco bought by your orders, eighty kopecks in silver. To the tailor Kuprian Apollonov . . .'
Ivan Afanasiitch suddenly raised his head, put out his hand and mixed up the counters.
'What are you about, my good man?' cried Praskovia Ivanovna. 'Don't you trust me?'
'Praskovia Ivanovna,' replied Pyetushkov, with a hurried smile, 'I've thought better of it. I was only, you know . . . joking. We'd better remain friends and go on in the old way. What nonsense it is! How can we separate—tell me that, please?'
Praskovia Ivanovna looked down and made him no reply.
'Come, we've been talking nonsense, and
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