She told him everything at once, abruptly and impressively. She hinted at the eight thousand of which he stood in such terrible need. She told him in detail of the dowry. Stepan Trofimovitch sat trembling, opening his eyes wider and wider. He heard it all, but he could not realise it clearly. He tried to speak, but his voice kept breaking. All he knew was that everything would be as she said, that to protest and refuse to agree would be useless, and that he was a married man irrevocably.

“ Mais, ma bonne amie! ⁠ ⁠… for the third time, and at my age⁠ ⁠… and to such a child.” He brought out at last, “ Mais, c’est une enfant! ”