“I will only say this: that I will not give up Polikoúshka on any account. When, after that affair with the clock, he confessed to me of his own accord, and cried, and gave his word to amend, I talked to him for a long time, and saw that he was touched and sincerely penitent.” (“There! She’s off now!” thought Egór Miháylovitch, and began examining the marmalade she had in a glass of water: was it orange or lemon? “Slightly bitter, I expect,” thought he.) “That is seven months ago now, and he has not once been drunk, and has behaved splendidly. His wife tells me he is a different man. How can you wish me to punish him now that he has reformed? Besides, it would be inhuman to make a soldier of a man who has five children, and he the only man in the family.⁠ ⁠… No, you’d better not say any more about it, Egór!”

And the lady took a sip out of the glass. Egór Miháylovitch watched the motion of her throat as the liquid passed down it, and then replied shortly and dryly:

“Then Doútlof’s decided on.”

The lady clasped her hands together.