“Well, this is beyond anything!” he mutters, as he finishes reading the letter and flings the sheets on the table, “It’s positively incredible!”

“What’s the matter?” asks Lidotchka, flustered.

“What’s the matter! You’ve covered six pages, wasted a good two hours scribbling, and there’s nothing in it at all! If there were one tiny idea! One reads on and on, and one’s brain is as muddled as though one were deciphering the Chinese wriggles on tea chests! Ough!”

“Yes, that’s true, Vanya,⁠ ⁠…” says Lidotchka, reddening. “I wrote it carelessly.⁠ ⁠…”

“Queer sort of carelessness! In a careless letter there is some meaning and style⁠—there is sense in it⁠—while yours⁠ ⁠… excuse me, but I don’t know what to call it! It’s absolute twaddle! There are words and sentences, but not the slightest sense in them. Your whole letter is exactly like the conversation of two boys: ‘We had pancakes today! And we had a soldier come to see us!’ You say the same thing over and over again! You drag it out, repeat yourself.⁠ ⁠… The wretched ideas dance about like devils: there’s no making out where anything begins, where anything ends.⁠ ⁠… How can you write like that?”

“If I had been writing carefully,” Lidotchka says in self defence, “then there would not have been mistakes.⁠ ⁠…”