'No.'
'How's that?—really! I take rolls from you every day, and pay for them regularly.'
The woman stared at him in silence. 'Take twists,' she said at last, yawning; 'or a scone.'
'I don't like them,' said Pyetushkov, and he felt positively hurt.
'As you please,' muttered the fat woman, and she slammed to the window-pane.
Ivan Afanasiitch was quite unhinged by his intense vexation. In his perturbation he crossed to the other side of the street, and gave himself up entirely, like a child, to his displeasure.
'Sir!' . . . he heard a rather agreeable female voice; 'sir!'
Ivan Afanasiitch raised his eyes. From the open pane of the bakehouse window peeped a girl of about seventeen, holding a white roll in her hand. She had a full round face, rosy cheeks, small hazel eyes, rather a turn-up nose, fair hair, and magnificent shoulders. Her features suggested good-nature, laziness, and carelessness.
'Here's a roll for you, sir,' she said, laughing, 'I'd taken for myself; but take it, please, I'll give it up to you.'
'I thank you most sincerely. Allow me . . .'
Pyetushkov began fumbling in his pocket.
'No, no! you are welcome to it.'
She closed the window-pane.
250
