the priest, looking furiously at the shopkeeper's fat, perspiring face.
“Yes.”
“So . . . and that means that you wrote it too? You?”
And Father Grigori wrathfully pushed a slip of paper under the shopkeeper's eyes. On this paper, given in by Andrei Andreitch during oblation, in a big, wandering hand, was written —
“Pray for the soul of God's slave, the Adulteress Marya.”
“Exactly; I wrote it . . .” answered the shopkeeper.
“How dare you write such a thing?” whispered the priest slowly, and his hoarse whisper expressed indignation and horror.
The shopkeeper looked at him with dull amazement and doubt, and felt frightened; from the day of his birth. Father Grigori had never spoken so angrily to a member of the Verchniye Zaprudni “Intelligentsia.” For a moment the two men faced each other in silence. The tradesman's surprise was so great that his fat face seemed to melt on all sides, as wet dough.
“How dare you?” repeated the priest.
“I don't understand,” said Andrei Andreitch doubtfully.
“So you don't understand,” whispered Father Grigori, receding in amazement, and flourishing his
