Pyetushkov arrived home in a perfectly agreeable frame of mind.
'You couldn't get any rolls,' he said to his Onisim; 'but here, I've got one, do you see?'
Onisim gave a bitter laugh.
The same day, in the evening, as Ivan Afanasiitch was undressing, he asked his servant, 'Tell me, please, my lad, what's the girl like at the baker's, hey?'
Onisim looked away rather gloomily, and responded, 'What do you want to know for?'
'Oh, nothing,' said Pyetushkov, taking off his boots with his own hands.
'Well, she's a fine girl!' Onisim observed condescendingly.
'Yes, . . . she's not bad-looking,' said Ivan Afanasiitch, also looking away. 'And what's her name, do you know?'
'Vassilissa.'
'And do you know her?'
Onisim did not answer for a minute or two.
'We know her.'
Pyetushkov was on the point of opening his mouth again, but he turned over on the other side and fell asleep.
Onisim went out into the passage, took a pinch of snuff, and gave his head a violent shake.
The next day, early in the morning, Pyetushkov called for his clothes. Onisim brought him his everyday coat—an old grass-coloured coat,
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