up,' by Pyetushkov; Onisim responded unwillingly.
'It's a strange thing, you know,' Ivan Afanasiitch would say, for instance, as he lay on the sofa, while Onisim stood in his usual attitude, leaning against the door, with his hands folded behind his back, 'when you come to think of it, what it was I saw in that girl. One would say that there was nothing unusual in her. It's true she has a good heart. That one can't deny her.'
'Good heart, indeed!' Onisim would answer with displeasure.
'Come, now, Onisim,' Pyetushkov went on, 'one must tell the truth. It's a thing of the past now; it's no matter to me now, but justice is justice. You don't know her. She's very good-hearted. Not a single beggar does she let pass by; she'll always give, if it's only a crust of bread. Oh! And she's of a cheerful temper, that one must allow, too.'
'What a notion! I don't know where you see the cheerful temper!'
'I tell you . . . you don't know her. And she's not mercenary either . . . that's another thing. She's not grasping, there's no doubt of it. Why I never gave her anything, as you know.'
'That's why she's flung you over.'
'No, that's not why!' responded Pyetushkov with a sigh.
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