with a sly smile, approached the remarkably dim looking-glass which was the solitary ornament of Ivan Afanasiitch's room.
'There's no denying the fact,' he pronounced, stroking his light brown whiskers, 'we've got girls here that beat any of your Venus of Medicis hollow. . . Have you seen Vassilissa, the baker girl, for instance?' . . . Mr. Bublitsyn sucked at his pipe.
Pyetushkov started.
'But why do I ask you?' pursued Bublitsyn, disappearing in a cloud of smoke,—' you're not the man to notice, don't you know, Ivan Afanasiitch! Goodness knows what you do to occupy yourself, Ivan Afanasiitch!'
'The same as you do,' Pyetushkov replied with some vexation, in a drawling voice.
'Oh no, Ivan Afanasiitch, not a bit of it. . . How can you say so?'
'Well, why not?'
'Nonsense, nonsense.'
'Why so, why so?'
Bublitsyn stuck his pipe in the corner of his mouth, and began scrutinising his not very handsome boots. Pyetushkov felt embarrassed.
'Ah, Ivan Afanasiitch, Ivan Afanasiitch!' pursued Bublitsyn, as though sparing his feelings. 'But as to Vassilissa, the baker girl, I can assure you: a very, ve-ry fine girl, . . . ve-ry.'
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