upon Pyetushkov, and not stirring from his place. 'Sit down. Well, I'm going to give you a talking to. I've wanted to get hold of you this long while.'
Pyetushkov sank into a chair.
'For,' the major began, with an unexpected lurch of his whole body, 'you're an officer, d' ye see, and so you've got to behave yourself according to rule. If you'd been a soldier, I'd have flogged you, and that's all about it, but, as 'tis, you're an officer. Did any one ever see the like of it? Disgracing yourself—is that a nice thing?'
'Allow me to know to what these remarks may refer?' Pyetushkov was beginning. . .
'I'll have no arguing! I dislike that beyond everything. I've said: I dislike it; and that's all about it! Ugh—why, your hooks are not in good form even;—what a disgrace! He sits, day in and day out, at the baker's shop; and he a gentleman born! There's a petticoat to be found there—and so there he sits. Let her go to the devil, the petticoat! Why, they do say he puts the bread in the oven. It's a stain on the uniform . . . so it is!'
'Allow me to submit,' articulated Pyetushkov with a cold chill at his heart, 'that all this, as far as I can make out, refers to my private life, so to say. . .'
'No arguing with me, I tell you! Private life, he protests, too! If it had been a matter
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