. . . Bublitsyn . . . the name was positively ringing in his ears.
'What's the matter, my good sir?' Praskovia Ivanovna asked him in a drowsy voice. 'Why are you groaning?'
'Oh, nothing, ma'am. Nothing. I feel a weight oppressing me.'
'It's the mushrooms,' murmured Praskovia Ivanovna—'it's all those mushrooms.'
O Lord, have mercy on us sinners!
An hour passed, a second—still no Vassilissa. Twenty times Pyetushkov was on the point of getting up, and twenty times he huddled miserably under the sheepskin. . . . At last he really did get down from the stove and determined to go home, and positively went out into the yard, but came back. Praskovia Ivanovna got up. The hired man, Luka, black as a beetle, though he was a baker, put the bread into the oven. Pyetushkov went again out on to the steps and pondered. The goat that lived in the yard went up to him, and gave him a little friendly poke with his horns. Pyetushkov looked at him, and for some unknown reason said 'Kss, Kss.' Suddenly the low wicket-gate slowly opened and Vassilissa appeared. Ivan Afanasiitch went straight to meet her, took her by the hand, and rather coolly, but resolutely, said to her:
'Come along with me.'
'But, excuse me, Ivan Afanasiitch . . . I . . .'
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