opinion of me? Do you suppose I am capable of betraying my friend and injuring you? Besides, come to that, there's nothing in your relations, as far as I'm aware, deserving of censure. . . . For goodness' sake, be calm.'
Musa heard me out, without stirring from the spot, or looking at me again.
'There's something else I ought to tell you,' she began, moving forward again along the path, 'or else you may think I'm quite mad! I ought to tell you, that old man wants to marry me!'
'What old man? The bald one? Punin?'
'No—not he! The other . . . Paramon Semyonitch.'
'Baburin?'
'Yes.'
'Is it possible? Has he made you an offer?'
'Yes.'
'But you didn't consent, of course?'
'Yes, I did consent . . . because I didn't understand what I was about then. Now it's a different matter.'
I flung up my hands. 'Baburin—and you! Why, he must be fifty!'
'He says forty-three. But that makes no difference. If he were five-and-twenty I wouldn't marry him. Much happiness I should find in it! A whole week will go by without his smiling once! Paramon
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