lad, I've been drinking. . . Dri-ink-ing, lad. . . . Who's that?' he cried suddenly, pointing to the door into the passage; 'who's there?'
'Nobody's there,' Onisim answered hastily: 'who should be there? . . . where are you going?'
'No, no,' repeated Pyetushkov, breaking away from Onisim, 'let me go, I saw—don't you talk to me,—I saw there, let me go. . . Vassilissa!' he shrieked all at once.
Pyetushkov turned pale.
'Well . . . well, why don't you come in?' he said at last. 'Come in, Vassilissa, come in. I'm very glad to see you, Vassilissa.'
Vassilissa glanced at Onisim and came into the room. Pyetushkov went nearer to her. . . He heaved deep, irregular breaths. Onisim watched him. Vassilissa stole timid glances at both of them.
'Sit down, Vassilissa,' Ivan Afanasiitch began again: 'thanks for coming. Excuse my being . . . what shall I say? . . . not quite fit to be seen. I couldn't foresee, couldn't really, you'll own that yourself. Come, sit down, see here, on the sofa . . . So . . . I'm expressing myself all right, I think.'
Vassilissa sat down.
'Well, good day to you,' Ivan Afanasiitch pursued. 'Come, how are you? what have you been doing?'
'I'm well, thank God, Ivan Afanasiitch. And you?'
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