“I should like to have a look at Sonitchka,” he whispered. “Arrange it, Borenka, my angel. I’ll shave, I’ll put on your suit⁠ ⁠… I’ll put on a straight face⁠ ⁠… I’ll hold my tongue while she is there. Yes, yes, I will hold my tongue!”

He looked round timidly towards the door, through which the women’s voices were heard, checked his sobs, and said aloud:

“Goodbye, young man! Attendez. ”

Lyubov Grigoryevna, a substantial, buxom lady of forty who undertook matchmaking and many other matters of which it is usual to speak only in whispers, had come to see Stytchkin, the head guard, on a day when he was off duty. Stytchkin, somewhat embarrassed, but, as always, grave, practical, and severe, was walking up and down the room, smoking a cigar and saying: