parti-coloured smoking-jacket with tucked-up sleeves, and a strainer in his hand.
'Oh, a friend of mine,' answered Vassilissa.
'What friend?'
'Oh, Piotr Petrovitch.'
'Piotr Petrovitch? . . . what Piotr Petrovitch?'
'He's one of your lot. He's got such a difficult name.'
'Bublitsyn?'
'Yes, yes . . . Piotr Petrovitch.'
'And do you know him?'
'Rather!' responded Vassilissa, with a wag of her head.
Pyetushkov, without a word, paced ten times up and down the room.
'I say, Vassilissa,' he said at last, 'that is, how do you know him?'
'How do I know him? . . . I know him . . . He's such a nice gentleman.'
'How do you mean nice, though? how nice? how nice?'
Vassilissa gazed at Ivan Afanasiitch.
'Nice,' she said slowly and in perplexity. 'You know what I mean.'
Pyetushkov bit his lips and began again pacing the room.
'What were you talking about with him, eh?'
Vassilissa smiled and looked down.
'Speak, speak, speak, I tell you, speak!'
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