They perceived him, and were astonished. It seemed that Semyon Vasilyevich was not so bad looking after all, if you did not count the moustache, and the freckles which were like splashes of mud from a rubber tyre, that he was decently well dressed, and his tall white collar, though a paper one, was at all events clean.
Anton Ivanovich, head of the office, coughing and still red with the exertion, looked at the confused Semyon Vasilyevich attentively, with curiosity in his prominent eyes, and still choking, asked with emphasis:
"So you, Semyon, ah!—I beg your pardon, I forget."
"Semyon Vasilyevich," Kotel'nikov reminded him, pronouncing it, not "Vasilich," but fully "Vasilyevich"; and this pronunciation was pleasing to all as expressive of a feeling of worth and self-respect.
"So you, Semyon Vasilyevich—love negresses?"
"Yes, I do, indeed."
And his voice, although rather weak, and, so to speak, somewhat wrinkled like a shrivelled turnip, was nevertheless pleasant. Anton Ivanovich pursed up his lower lip so that his grey moustache pressed against the tip of his red pitted nose, took in all the officials with his rounded eyes, and after an unavoidable pause emitted a fat unctuous laugh.
