'Eh! my good sir, there's no looking after a girl!' responded Praskovia Ivanovna. 'Let her go her way! So long as she does her work. . . Why shouldn't folks enjoy themselves? . . .'
A cold shudder ran over Pyetushkov. At last, towards evening, Vassilissa made her appearance. This was all he was waiting for. Majestically Pyetushkov rose from his seat, folded his arms, scowled menacingly. . . But Vassilissa looked him boldly in the face, laughed impudently, and before he could utter a single word she went quickly into her own room, and locked herself in. Ivan Afanasiitch opened his mouth, looked in amazement at Praskovia Ivanovna. . . Praskovia Ivanovna cast down her eyes. Ivan Afanasiitch stood still a moment, groped after his cap, put it on askew, and went out without closing his mouth.
He reached home, took up a leather cushion, and with it flung himself on the sofa, with his face to the wall. Onisim looked in out of the passage, went into the room, leaned his back against the door, took a pinch of snuff, and crossed his legs.
'Are you unwell, Ivan Afanasiitch?' he asked Pyetushkov.
Pyetushkov made no answer.
'Shall I go for the doctor?' Onisim continued, after a brief pause.
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