stretched a row of fishermen's yards. On the roof was a watch-tower, not for the sake of the view, but to see how and where the work was going on.
They drove up to the house. The master was not at home; they were met by his wife, Platonov's sister, fair-haired, white-skinned, with a specially Russian expression, as handsome but also as listless as he. It seemed as though she cared little for the things that were most cared for, either because the all-devouring activity at her side left nothing for her to do, or because by her very nature she belonged to that class of philosophical people, who, having feelings and intelligence only, as it were, half alive, look at life with their eyes half closed and seeing its fierce struggle and agitation, say: 'Let them rave, the fools! So much the worse for them.'
'Good-day, sister,' said Platonov. 'Where is Konstantin?'
'I don't know, he ought to have been here long ago. No doubt he has been kept by something.'
Tchitchikov took little notice of the lady of the house. He was interested in looking at the habitation of this remarkable man. He scrutinised everything in the room; he expected to find traces of its owner's character, as from the shell one can judge what the oyster or the snail that lived in it was like; but there was nothing of the sort. The room was absolutely
