passed between us, and at once turned to me with the warmest expressions of delight.
'Ah! little master! little master!' he cried, waving his hands wildly, and going off into his noiseless laugh: 'the little dear! come to pay me a visit! here he's come, the little dear!' (What's the meaning of it? I thought: can he be speaking in this familiar way to me?) 'There, come along, come with me into the garden. I've found something there. . . . Why stay in this stuffiness here! let's go!'
I followed Punin, but in the doorway I thought it as well to turn round and fling a glance of defiance at Baburin, as though to say, I'm not afraid of you!
He responded in the same way, and positively snorted into the towel—probably to make me thoroughly aware how utterly he despised me!
'What an insolent fellow your friend is!' I said to Punin, directly the door had closed behind me.
Almost with horror, Punin turned his plump face to me.
'To whom did you apply that expression?' he asked me, with round eyes.
"Why, to him, of course . . . What's his name? that . . . Baburin.'
'Paramon Semyonevitch?'
'Why, yes; that . . . blackfaced fellow.'
'Eh . . . eh . . . eh . . .!' Punin protested, with caressing reproachfulness. 'How can you
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